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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28673760">Home Again</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notmarysue/pseuds/Notmarysue'>Notmarysue</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everybody Lives, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Injury Recovery, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Blood, Mild Language, Minor Violence, Post-Russian Affair, Pre-Canon, Reunions, What-If</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 05:35:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>22,191</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28673760</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notmarysue/pseuds/Notmarysue</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Injured and alone on the stormy streets of Chicago, death seems all but certain for Owen Carvour. His vision is failing, but the suburb looks oddly familiar. If his calculations are correct, a certain American spy should be close at hand. It's less than ideal, but any shelter is better than none. Now he can only hope Curt won't let him fall a second time.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>84</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>104</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Any Port In A Storm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>"Notmarysue are you ever going to write a fic that acknowledges the fact that canonical Owen knew exactly where Curt was and what he was going through the whole time, but hates him to a point where it doesn't matter?" Absolutely not! Well, probably not. Listen, my denial is strong and Owen having mixed feelings is fun to write.</p><p>Anyway, this is probably going to be significantly shorter than New Beginnings but I can't give an exact chapter number right now. This has no relation to that fic. I can't promise an exact schedule for updates because of university, but I'll keep them as regular as I can.</p><p>Now that's all out of the way, let's get this ball rolling. Enjoy.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The problem with a career like Owen’s was that he could never have a normal day. Heck, he was lucky if he ever got a normal hour. One moment he was flying high, the next his life was crashing down around him for the second time in three years. At 10pm, his surveillance mission for Chimera was going smoothly, by 11:30 he was staggering through the Chicago streets, blood leaking through his shirt.</p><p>Icy November winds lashed at his face. The strong gusts threatened to force him into the middle of the empty road and the water from the sheets of storm rain soaked into his clothes. If he didn’t bleed to death, he would probably freeze, and he wasn’t sure which fate he preferred. On any other day his survival bag, a worn faded blue rucksack, would barely feel heavier than air, but as he walked the sheer weight of it felt like it should break the single shoulder it was haphazardly slumped over. He must have been a sight for sore eyes. Not that there was anyone to see. Nobody else in the neat suburban neighbourhood was stupid enough to be outside.</p><p>Owen squinted to focus on the dimly lit street. The sparse streetlights paired with his own fading vision made it near impossible to see his path. The pavement around him blurred and doubled as he tried to rapidly blink it away. It wasn’t the first time he’d been shot. In fact, he’d probably been in similar positions more times than anyone else, or at least anyone who was still alive to tell the tale. Despite this, the dull pain in his lower abdomen was making his head spin and nausea near overwhelm him. He bit the inside of his lip and focused on calming his shaky breathes. He may not have known where he was going but he couldn’t keep stop walking. If he did, he feared he’d never move again.</p><p>The suburb streets looked remarkably familiar. Maybe it was just his rapidly firing mind trying to grab onto something, but he could have sworn he’d walked through the area before. It was easy to feel that way in such a well-travelled profession. In the end, there was only so such variety in the world. Grey ashy cities, clean open villages. It was all the same. Still, the sense was unshakable. He allowed himself to pause for just a moment to inspect the neat brick houses that reminded him of his childhood home all the way across the Atlantic. He watched the rain beneath the lamp post and breathed in the smell of damp dust. Through the fog in his mind, his senses rolled together, and the memories rose to the service. For a second, it felt like he’d been shot all over again. This was Curt’s suburb.</p><p>He shook his head and forced himself to move on. He tried not to think about Curt and all complicated thoughts that came with picturing his stupid smug face. He tried not to think about the guest bedroom that had only ever hosted him, though by the end he’d barely slept in its bed at all. He tried not think about the first few days after the fall, those endless weeks where even Chimera had treated him as fragile. Days upon days of feeling broken. Nobody would say it to him directly, but in the beginning his new companions hadn’t been sure if he’d make it. It was an uncertainty that he had secretly shared. In those first rocky days, Owen had wished so badly to trade his cold hospital bed for the warmth of Curt’s sheets. After all, if he was going to die anywhere, where better than his partner’s arms? Another bolt of pain shot through his body. He instinctively reached his hand to the wound. The blood poured in small streams down his fingers. He closed his palm and tried not to think about death.</p><p>None of his memories would do him much good anyway. They offered him no comfort now. The sense of safety they’d once provided had long since been replaced by something cold and bitter. Besides, it wasn’t like this was still where Curt lived. Surely, he’d moved on by now. He would be resting his head in some other city, far away from where Owen would ever find him. Unless…</p><p>Curt was a man of many flaws. So many that Owen could list them for hours if he was asked (which was exactly why people didn’t ask). He was ignorant, boneheaded, and impulsive. Above all he was stubborn. Stubborn enough not move on after the recommended five years. It was important for an agent not to get attached to anything, whether it be a person or a place, but great Curt Mega had been prone to loving both. He had always wanted to make his house a home. He wouldn’t move on unless he was compromised, and Owen had no reason to think he was. Chimera had never asked for Curt’s address, figuring that the idiot American would get himself killed long before they had to step in, and Owen had never offered it to them. No other organisation cared about individual agents as deeply, so what reason would he have to leave? Odds are he was still there, building his shelter in a small house that was somehow still too big for him, ready to open his door for a dead man.</p><p>No, the idea was ridiculous. He wasn’t going to spend his last moments with the man who had forced him down this path to begin with. He’d given up a lot over the years: his family, his friends, his home. If he was going to die with anything, he was going to die with a little dignity. He wouldn’t be weak in the presence of a man like Curt Mega ever again.</p><p>He paused for breath, hoping that this latest bout of light headiness would pass. He hated himself for every second he lingered. Stopping was easy, but immensely dangerous for someone who didn’t know how many starts they had left in them.</p><p>Who was he kidding? What choice did he have? It didn’t matter what he tried to tell himself, he didn’t want to die. The hospital was a no go. It was miles away and even if it wasn’t, civilians had a nasty tendency of asking questions. Any plan that involved them was a bad one. Chimera wouldn’t risk any of their information slipping out, that much had been made clear. If he ended up at the ER, somebody would make sure he didn’t leave. There was only one door he could knock on that would give him the right sort of help and that was Curt’s, whether he liked it or not.</p><p>He stumbled to Curt’s black wooden door and jabbed the white doorbell, leaving a bloody fingerprint on the button. The buzz rang through Curt’s hallway before returning to silence. Owen waited for the sound of footsteps. None came. He pressed the bell again, this time holding it down for several seconds before letting it go. At the rate they were going, Curt was going to have a body on his hands. Providing he showed up at all. What did he expect? Curt had already let him die once. It only made sense that he would do it again.</p><p>Perhaps that was unfair. It was the middle of the night during the heart of November. One of the coldest and wettest nights of the whole year. Few sensible people would open their door to a random man off the street and a spy had many more reasons not to trust a stranger in the dark.</p><p>But he wasn’t a stranger. He was about as far from a random man off the street as a person could get. He was an agent, an actor, a bloody survivor. Anger filled him as he pounded on the door, near breaking his balled-up fist in the process. He was Owen God damn Carvour and he’d be damned if the newspaper published his obituary twice.</p><p>“Alright, alright, I’m coming.” He heard Curt call from his living room. Even in his barely semi-conscious state he could hear the slight slur of his words and the unmistakable irritation in his voice. He paid it little mind. There were more pressing matters to attend to.</p><p>The door swung open. Owen grabbed hold of the doorframe, struggling to keep himself up right now that he was so close to sanctuary. Curt froze like a deer in the headlights the moment their eyes met. He stared at Owen standing there, hutched over on his porch, his clothes and hair dripping wait, panting for breath.</p><p>“Owen?” Curt’s voice was soft and unsure, seeming more afraid that it had on any of their death defying missions. It wasn’t really a question; they both knew that. It was a sign of disbelieve. It was as if he’d seen a ghost. Owen supposed that he had.</p><p>“Hey.” Owen smiled deliriously. If he had the chance, he might have gone on to say something else. He might have offered an explanation or witty joke. Anything to snap Curt out of it and get him to act. But neither of them would ever get to find out what he would have said next, because as soon as the word was out of his mouth, his hand fell away from the door and consciousness fell away from him just as fast.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Survival Tactics</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Owen may have survived the night, but he failed to think of the consequences of his decision. Now, after three years apart, he has no choice but to talk to Curt.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This author's note isn't really about this chapter in particular (more last chapter to be honest) but does anyone else feel kind of weird writing the name 'Curt Mega' knowing full well that's also the actor's name? In tumblr tags (and also character tags I believe), the character and the actor are easily separated by the prefix 'agent'. That doesn't really work in writing without sounding really unnatural. I don't know, it's just a little odd.</p><p>Anyway, moving on...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sunlight streamed through the cracks of the blinds that covered the tiny window behind the bed in the guest bedroom. Owen groaned and screwed up his eyes, trying to block out every ounce of light. He just needed five minutes more. Morning marched on. The shrill tweets of the birds outside, freshly invigorated after the rain, chorused obnoxiously, ruining any chance of him getting back to sleep. He rolled over, grabbing hold of the soft duvet. He ran as he fingers across the fabric, taking in the moment before his brain fully woke up. His eyes pinged open as a realisation struck.</p><p>Not dead.</p><p>This was as much of a surprise as it was a relief, a sentiment that was becoming far too common for Owen’s liking. Rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. He sprawled out on the bed, throwing his arms over the sides, and took a few second to lay there. It had been months before he had the opportunity to sleep in. How long had he been asleep anyway? The sun was far too bright for it to still be dawn. It didn’t really matter. He’d earned a wasted day.</p><p>After a minute or so, he forced himself to sit up right and rested his head on the light grey board behind him. His arms were stiff as he pushed himself into a sitting position. He grimaced at the slight pain that came with the movement. He lifted his loose, pea green t-shirt to inspect his injury. Not his shirt, he noted, though he preferred waking up in it than his soggy dress shirt. The wound had been cleaned and wrapped in soft white bandages. It had been dressed with expert care and precision. For all his issues, Curt had done a surprisingly good job.</p><p>Curt. Owen cringed at the thought of him. Coming to his door had been all very well in the moment. He had been a means to an end, a tool for survival. But what he was he supposed to do now? Now that he had lived. Now that he was in Curt’s house. He hadn’t even stopped to consider any of these questions before showing up and the answers were far too complicated for his tired mind to work out.</p><p>He scanned the room. It appeared to be almost completely unchanged since his last night there. The vertical blinds were still slightly crooked, the fluffy cream carpet was exactly the same. The building had never particularly suited Curt. It was far too domestic. Surely a man like him belonged in a sleek apartment in the heart of the city. Still, Curt had been remarkably adamant about choosing somewhere peaceful. After all, his work life was already chaotic enough. He didn’t need the hustle and bustle of city life on top of that. A thick layer of dust had settled on the bedside table. Small patches of clear wood suggested it had been recently disturbed for the first time in years. Other than that, there was only one noticeable difference. In the years before, there had been a framed picture with black borders sat upon the bedside table. It had been a picture of the two of them sat on a wall, smiling, taken during Curt’s first and only trip to England. The picture was gone now. The spot it had once taken was empty.</p><p>Good. There was no need to keep mementos around. Curt had moved on, as had heow they could go on with their lives the way they always should have, strictly professional. So why was he still so scared of meeting him?</p><p>He spotted his bag resting at the side of the bed next to his neatly paired shoes. He could run. Curt was nowhere to be seen. He could just get up and leave. He would drop off the files he’d stolen (whatever was left of it after the rain), mark his mission as complete, and move onto the next thing. It could be hours before his departure was noticed. He swung his legs over the side and placed his hand on the headboard. After a few seconds of hesitation, he tried to stand, but his worn out legs instantly cried out in protest and fell back to sitting.</p><p>The situation could be used to his advantage. For years he’d imagined a chance for revenge. It had brought him some degree of comfort to think that Curt would one day feel the same amount of pain and betrayal he had. Of course, he had never been allowed to deviate from his missions, none of which had ever put him in Curt’s path, so any thoughts of vengeance had stayed locked inside his head. Now he was in Curt’s home. He would be vulnerable and off guard. It was the perfect place to strike.</p><p>Still, assaulting someone on their home turf was rarely as effective. Not when they already know someone’s there. Even it was, he couldn’t fight for the same reason he couldn’t leave. He didn’t have a weapon and he didn’t stand a chance in a physical fight. Even harsh words seemed likely to fall flat in his current state. Besides, it wouldn’t be right. Owen was hardly a man of honour, but he did have some manners. It would be extremely unfair to attack Curt for leaving him behind accidentally immediately after he saved his life deliberately.</p><p>In the end, it didn’t matter what cause of action he wanted to take. The decision, like the majority of decisions in his life, was made for him before he had the chance. He heard the creak of a floorboard on the landing. Curt inched his way into the doorway, walking very cautiously, as if Owen was a small animal that might flee if he made any sudden movements. It was a fair assumption. If he could, he probably would. They could label him a coward. He didn’t care. He just wasn’t ready.</p><p>“Good morning.” Owen smiled, forcing a beaming grin that he knew Curt would see right through.</p><p>“Morning.” Curt replied quietly. “How’s the…” He waved his hand in the general direction of his injury.</p><p>“Oh…” Owen wrapped his arms around his stomach, wincing slight at the light pressure over the bandages. “Better. Thank you.”</p><p>“Good.” Curt nodded. He walked over to the bed and perched himself next to Owen. He sat awkwardly rigid, with hands on his knees and his eyes on the ground. Owen kept a close eye on him, trying to figure out what he was going to do next. There was once a time where he could read Curt’s thoughts like a book. Now, he could barely guess.</p><p>He should say something. They couldn’t go on sitting in silence. Say what though? That he was sorry for faking his death? That wasn’t true. He wasn’t remotely sorry. Should he try to explain himself? Curt would never understand everything that had happened in the last three years. He definitely wouldn’t understand Chimera. In reality, there was no right thing for him to say. He just had to start talking and hope for the best.</p><p>“Curt, I-“ Curt’s hand was moving before the words had left Owen’s mouth. He barely even registered what had happened until his cheek was stinging and Curt’s hand was back by his side. He reached his fingers up to prone at the throbbing mark. “Ow. What the Hell, Curt?” He shouted.</p><p>“What the Hell do you think you’re playing at?” Curt snapped. His tired eyes burnt daggers into Owen’s soul. Owen had predicted would Curt a whole range of emotions if they ever met again. Anger had never been one he’d considered.</p><p>No, the look in Curt’s eyes wasn’t one of anger. Not real anger. It was something else, something that Owen couldn’t quite describe, and that scared him even more.</p><p>“Excuse me?” Owen scowled.</p><p>“Don’t play dumb with me.” Curt balled up his fist and punched Owen’s arm. It wasn’t a hard punch, barely even a jab, but the fact it was coming for Curt took him off guard.</p><p>“Ow, hey, quit it.”</p><p>“I thought you were dead. For three years, I thought you were dead. I thought I killed you.”</p><p>“Well-“</p><p>“Three fucking years. You couldn’t even phone?”</p><p>“You…don’t have a phone, Curt.” He reminded him. “What did you want me to do? Ring all the local pay phones to see if you’d pick up.”</p><p>“That’s not the point. You have contacts. You could have passed on a message. A simple ‘hey, heads up. I’m not dead’ would have sufficed.”</p><p>“Sufficed, hey? That’s a pretty big word for you.” Owen smirked. Curt’s response came in the form of another punch in the same spot. “Ow. Okay, fine. I deserved that one.”</p><p>“And then when you finally have the nerve to show your face, you nearly bleed out on my porch. Jesus, Owen, I thought I was going to lose you the moment I found you again.”</p><p>“So, wait…are you mad at me for faking my death or mad at me because I got shot?”</p><p>“Yes.” Curt fist wound up again. This time Owen saw it coming and incepted, grabbing Curt by the wrist and throwing his arm down.</p><p>“You know hitting me isn’t going to erase anything that happened.” Owen snapped.</p><p>“Yeah, but it might make me feel better.” Curt huffed. Owen noticed the tears welling in Curt’s eyes. A pang of guilt shot through his chest. He turned away and let it pass. He had nothing to feel guilty about. What right did Curt have to play the victim? This had all been his fault. “You…you could have just said something. I would have understood if you didn’t come back. I just wish you would have said something.” Curt’s voice was quiet and shaky now, which did nothing to calm Owen’s nerves. The anger had been better. Owen could deal with anger.</p><p>“I had nothing to say.” Owen muttered.</p><p>“But I thought I lost you.” He sobbed. Owen kept his eyes locked on the ground. Maybe if he kept pretending Curt’s tears didn’t hurt him, then it would start being true.</p><p>“So, what happens now?” He asked firmly, trying to scrub away any emotion from his voice.</p><p>“Well…you’re not in any position to leave. I think that much is clear.” Curt replied, wiping away his tears and steadying his voice.</p><p>“Right.” Owen nodded.</p><p>“Is anyone looking for you?”</p><p>“No, I don’t think so.” It wasn’t a lie. As far as he knew, nobody was. He was still just another agent after all. One lost, presumed dead, Chimera operative was hardly something anyone would kick up a fuss about.</p><p>“Okay…well then you can stay here until you’re better and then…”</p><p>“And then what?” Asked Owen, managing to force himself to look up.</p><p>“I guess we’ll figure that part out when we get there.” Curt shrugged.</p><p>“Sure.” Owen agreed. Curt lingered for a few seconds, clearly expecting more to be said. But what was there to say? Did he want to sit there and engage in small talk? They weren’t exactly in the position to chat about the weather. The seconds passed and Curt finally got up to leave. He stopped for a moment in the doorway, inspecting him like part of him thought he would disappear while his back was turned.</p><p>“If you need anything just-“</p><p>“I won’t.” Owen interrupted, only to find that he instantly regretted it. “But…thank you.”</p><p>Curt nodded in acknowledgement and headed out, closing the door behind him. Owen let himself fall back onto the bed, his legs dangling off the side. ‘Until you’re better’. When would that be? And was he going to feel so strange the whole time? He’d done nothing wrong. He knew that. Every choice it made had been for something bigger than both of them. Besides, Curt had waved his right to feel hurt by him the moment he left him for dead. So why did his tears sting more than his punches?</p><p>It didn’t matter. Emotions were civilians. He’d learned his lesson about caring the hard way. He didn’t need to be taught again. If he really had to stay in this stupid house, then he would only do so until the second he was strong enough to leave, and he would vow not to feel a single thing while he was there. His views on Curt now would have to stay professional. This was survival, plain and simple.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Alone With You</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It's hard to find distractions when there's always someone watching, especially when they keep insisting on talking.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>CONTENT WARNING: Warning for implied past attempted suicide. It's a very brief, throwaway line but I don't want to cause anyone any unnecessary distress. Take care of yourselves, folks.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next few days dragged endlessly. Owen found out on his first night that he’d matched to skip two days by being unconscious. Now he was awake, it wasn’t so easy. He tried to pass the next three the same way. He tossed and turned, trying to force himself to sleep. With hope, he’d wake up in some low-end hotel, ready to start his mission, and the whole mess would be one long, lucid dream. No way he’d be that lucky though.</p><p>All the effort amounted to nothing. He could never sleep. Even in the middle of the night, he found himself just laying there, staring into the darkness. Owen never normally struggled to sleep in unfamiliar places. In fact, he found it remarkably easy. Any rest was good rest, whether it be in a bed or a muddy field. It didn’t take an agent to learn the ancient art of roughing it. Maybe it was just the pain, though that had subsided rapidly after the first few hours. Maybe it was the light, too bright in the day and too unsettlingly dark at night. He didn’t know. All he knew was that he was exhausted, and his mind wouldn’t let him rest.</p><p>Unable to sleep, he tried to distract himself through simple activities. There was little to do and even less that he could manage, but there was entertainment to be found in anything if he was willing to try. He paced around the room, walking the four walls in dizzying circles to try and work the stiffness from his legs. He watched the occasional bursts of rain pass by. The tiny drops of water that trailed down the windowpane was so soothing that he could almost forget where he was. At one point he decided to clean, or at least get rid of the dust, which seemed to irate Curt. Something about exerting too much energy.</p><p>Curt was a strange creature. He wasn’t acting like himself. Which was for the best, because ‘himself’ was an intolerable jerk. Still, a jerk would be better than whatever he was now. He was so timid. The sense of style that had been such an important part of his personality had been completely lost and it looked like it been months since he shaved. Owen didn’t want to call whatever was on Curt’s face a beard. It was more like untamed stubble, the random patches of thicker hair that were attempting to be a beard. From its length, Owen reckoned that Curt had been trying to keep up with regular shaving, but had been doing a terrible job, and at some point in the last year had given up completely. The bags under his dull eyes never seemed to fade. It was likely he hadn’t been sleeping either. Unlike Owen though, it appeared that Curt hadn’t a full eight hours in years. Where had all his misplaced confidence gone?</p><p> What frustrated Owen was the way he behaved when they were in the same room. He’d done a complete 180 since his initial outburst. Now he treated Owen like he was fragile, as if he would shatter into a thousand pieces if too much pressure was placed on him. He hated every second it. He hated feeling so small and helpless. It made a vow after surviving his fall that he’d never feel helpless again. Yet there he was, back with the person who made him that way to begin with. Worst of all was the way he talked. Stupid, mundane small talk. The exact kind he was dreading. Weather, news, TV shows that Owen definitely hadn’t seen. Anything to avoid talking about anything important. Neither of them would address the elephant in the room, regardless of how loud it grew. They couldn’t talk about those three years.</p><p>Eventually, Owen resorted to Curt’s painfully limited book collection. Owen had loved reading as kid, managing to devour whole novels in less than a day, but he’d never had the time since becoming an agent. He definitely didn’t have the time while working for Chimera. Curt’s tiny library didn’t exactly match his tastes, but the pulpy action stories and cowboy books were better than nothing. Besides, they weren’t without their value. They were charming, in a childish sort of way.</p><p>Owen was laying on the bed, digging through his second book that day, when he heard a knock on the door. He sighed and turned his attention away from the worn, slightly yellow pages.</p><p>“Yes?” He called.</p><p>“Are you awake?” Curt asked through the door.</p><p>“No, Curt, I’m talking to in my talk.” There was a moment of silence. Jesus, was he actually considering it? The door clicked open. Good, he was learning. Owen placed the open book down on the bed. Curt hobbled in, struggling to balance a black tray in his hands. On the tray sat a bowl of soup, two slices of buttered bread on a small plate, and a glass of water.</p><p>“Thought you’d want something to eat.” Curt smiled awkwardly.</p><p>“Thank you.” Owen muttered. He’d found it annoyingly hard to raise his voice much louder than a whisper in Curt’s presence. It was like he was afraid to wake something.</p><p>Curt rested the tray in front of him before sitting on the edge of the bed. He’d become remarkably committed the role of nurse, even if he wasn’t particularly suited to it. He kept treating Owen like he was a sickly child that needed to constant care and attention, which might not have been too far from the truth, but he’d much rather be left to suffer in silence. Constant soup, constant cups of tea (or a poor America attempt at tea). It wasn’t even good soup. It was the cheapest range of tinned goods he’d ever tasted. Still, Owen had to admit he appreciated the attempt, especially considering Curt’s usual standards of cooking.</p><p>Curt had never been a good cook. He tried, oh boy did he try, but he just couldn’t master it. Owen was convinced he could burn a cup of water given half a chance. Owen tried to teach him, and he did make some progress. The two of them should just about manage scrambled eyes by the time Owen gave up. After nearly losing one hostel kitchen to a burnt lasagne and almost getting food poisoning going in the opposite direction with burgers, Owen officially banned Curt from ever cooking while he was around. That would be his job. Owen wasn’t a world class chef by any stretch of the imagination, but he could fix up the English staples of stew, shepherd’s pie, and sausages without killing anyone, so the two of them never had to worry about starving to death. The soup may have been straight out of a can, but it didn’t taste like ash or ice, so Curt was clearly improving.</p><p>“The Ox-Bow Incident?” Curt asked, picking up the book and inspecting the cover. Owen took the opportunity to roll his eyes while he was distracted. So, it began, the small talk tango. If social interaction was a dance, then they both had two left feet.</p><p>“Yes.” Owen replied as he picked up his spoon.</p><p>“Didn’t you read this one already?”</p><p>“No. I don’t think so.” He hadn’t quite exhausted Curt’s small collection yet, so he hadn’t felt the need to recycle material. It was important to keep things fresh.</p><p>“Yeah, you did. I’m sure you did. You went on about it for ages. Something about a thrilling morality tale.” Oh, he was talking about before. Owen knew the book seemed familiar. He’d read it once before when a snowstorm had caused problems with his flight back to England. Owen used have a lot of problems with his flights back to England. Well, that’s what he told his superiors at least.</p><p>“Ah yes, so I did. I seem to remember you complaining about it. You said it was far too slow.” Owen commented before taking a mouthful of lukewarm soup.</p><p>“When I pick up a western, I’m in it for gunslingers and fast action. I want it to be fun, I don’t want to think.”</p><p>“No. You never do.” Owen muttered. It caught his tongue before anything else could slip out. He was supposed to be acting civil after all.</p><p>Owen sensed Curt’s eyes fixed on him while he ate. This always happened. Curt would end up just sitting there, starring at the spot where he had been shot. He wasn’t even sure Curt knew he was doing it. He was just lost in his own little world. Owen threw his spoon down on the tray. They couldn’t go on like this. They had to talk about something meaningful at some point. If he had to make the first move, so be it.</p><p>“Curt.” He huffed.</p><p>“Hmm?” Curt replied, quickly snapping out of it and looking up.</p><p>“If you’re going to ask, just ask.”</p><p>“If I do, will you tell me the truth?”</p><p>“I’ll tell you something close to the truth.” Owen admitted.</p><p>“How close?” Curt urged.</p><p>“Closer than no answer at all.” He snapped. Curt sighed.</p><p>“How did you get shot, Owen?” He grumbled.</p><p>“I was working.”</p><p>“Working?”</p><p>“Yes. You didn’t think I survived the last three years without a job, did you? We both come from remarkably capitalist countries, Curt. Heck, we make a point of it.” He explained.</p><p>“Right…and you have the kind of job where you can get shot?”</p><p>“Well, it was either that or retail.” Owen shrugged. What exactly did Curt think he had been doing? Now that it was obvious he wasn’t dead, surely he could manage a few logical assumptions. Spies rarely managed to slip away into civilian life. They stayed spies until the day they died, just for different teams. Still, it was probably for the best that Curt couldn’t make the connections. That way Chimera stayed his little secret.</p><p>“You don’t work MI6 anymore though.” Oh, he could work some things out. Good for him.</p><p>“What makes you say that?”</p><p>“Well, if they knew you were alive, they would have told me.”</p><p>“Why? They don’t know you.” That wasn’t entirely true. They were definitely aware of Curt. At first, he was ‘that bumbling idiot that keeps interfering with Agent Carvour’s missions’, then ‘that occasionally helpful one from America’, and finally ‘Agent Carvour’s American contact’. Though being from two different agencies meant they could never officially be partners, it had eventually been accepted that they were working together. Still, that didn’t stop the higher ups complaining about him. Somewhere, deep in MI6’s archives, there was still a file that lovingly labelled Curt as ‘that bloody nuisance’.</p><p>“Right…but they would have told Cynthia, because she would need to keep tabs of British agents that might cross paths with our teams. There’s no way she wouldn’t have told me.” Curt insisted.</p><p>“I think you give our organisations far too much credit. But no, I’m not working for MI6.”</p><p>“Well…are you going to tell me who you <em>are</em> working for?”</p><p>“…No.” Owen answered after a few seconds of deliberation. “No. I don’t think I am.”</p><p>Curt nodded. There was a time he would have pushed endlessly for answers, but perhaps he knew better than to try at get inside Owen’s head.</p><p>Maybe this didn’t have to be a waste of time. Maybe this was his chance to gather some information. After all, Curt would have plenty of insider information. It probably wouldn’t be hard to get him to give it up. By the time he got back to Chimera, his absence would barely seem like an issue. He could just say he was working the whole time.</p><p>“So…what about you?” Asked Owen.</p><p>“What <em>about </em>me?” Curt chuckled nervously.</p><p>“Well, you must have been up to <em>something</em> while I was away. Come on, I used to get some great mission stories out of you. You must have got some good ones in the last three years.”</p><p>“Oh…no. I’ve urr…I’ve actually just been here.”</p><p>“Oh please, I don’t believe that for a second. No way has every single mission been in the Chicago area. I don’t think we ever even did one mission here.”</p><p>“No. I mean I haven’t been on any missions.” He admitted. “I’m retired.”</p><p>“Retired?” Owen laughed. “Curt you can’t be retired. You’re twenty-seven.”</p><p>“Well then I’m on permanent hiatus. After you…died I was told to take a break. Just a little time to clear my head, sort myself out.”</p><p>“And?”</p><p>“And I just never went back.” He shrugged.</p><p>The information struggled to register in Owen’s brain. He heard it just fine, he even understood it, but accepting it was a whole different matter. He could hardly imagine in a world where Curt wasn’t a spy. Curt loved his job. All he ever wanted was to make a difference. How could there ever be a world where he was anything else?</p><p>“Well…then how do you afford…” He gestured vaguely at the house.</p><p>“Cynthia.” Curt smiled. “She sorted out a nice severance package for me. She makes sure I’m well looked after.”</p><p>Ah Cynthia. What a wonderful paradox of a woman she was. She somehow managed to simultaneously be the most and the least professional person Owen had ever met. She was blunt, crass, and well known for giving Curt a hard time of it. Yet she cared, in her own strange little way. She looked out for them and always had their backs when the chips were down. Owen was sure she’d figured their secret out early on. He was also sure she shared a similar secret herself. It was funny how people like them always found each other.</p><p>Owen picked up his spoon and decided to distract himself by half-heartedly committing to the watery chicken and vegetable broth that was growing colder by the second. The new information was still swirling around his head. Part of him had thought his ‘death’ would be a more galvanising force. Curt Mega not an agent. It just didn’t make any sense.</p><p>“Honestly, Curt. I die in our noble fight against the commies and you don’t even try to avenge me.” Owen said light-heartedly as he tore off a chunk of his bread.</p><p>“No. I tried.” Curt said quietly, turning his gaze to the ground. Owen froze, suddenly finding himself feeling quite sick. “I should um…I should leave you to eat.”</p><p>“Y-you don’t have to.” Owen stuttered as Curt got up. The thought was supposed to stay his head, but it was out before he even realised. “I mean…if you want to stay.”</p><p>“No, no, it’s fine. You need peace and quiet to recover.”</p><p>“Right. Of course. Peace and quiet.” Owen nodded.</p><p>Curt left. Owen tried to turn back to his meal. It was no good. All the heat had gone from it. Even if it hadn’t, he was hungry now anyway. He gently placed it on the bedside table and reached for his book, only to find that he could no longer focus on the pages.  Maybe Curt was right, he should read something more fun.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I don't know if I actually need to reference books that are only mentioned and not quoted from but I've heard enough anti-plagiarism speeches to not take the risk so...</p><p>Book referenced: The Ox-Bow Incident by Walter Van Tilburg Clark. Published in 1940. (Fun fact: It was originally going to be Butcher's Crossing by John Williams, but I only realised while writing up this reference that it was published in 1960, so there was no way Owen could have read it while staying with Curt before).</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Nightlife</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>There had always been differences between Owen and Curt, differences that are more present now than ever before, but at least there are somethings they had unite over. Like their hatred of a particular member of Chicago's nightlife.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>CONTENT WARNING: Warning for alcoholism/alcohol abuse, discussions of animal abuse (well, sort of. It's a very jokey conversation but I'm flagging it up regardless), implied/referenced hullancations, and mentioned physical and emotional trauma.</p><p>For future reference, I'm going to be placing all content warnings at the start like this, so take the time to read them before continuing. I didn't place anything at the start of chapter 1 or 2 because I think the warnings for that were covered in the tags. If you spot anything while reading that you think should be flagged up in the author's note, please let me know.</p><p>Now, on we go.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Owen had found himself with a lot of enemies over the years. Fascists, communists, one particularly rude barista that never got his order right. Stupid William. But never, not once in his life, had he hated anything as much as the bloody owl outside his window. He’d learnt to accept the song birds, their simple melodies could be quite relaxing, but the owl was nothing more than a pain. Every night, at the 11pm exactly, it would start hooting, and wouldn’t stop again until around 4 in the morning, when the birds took over their shift. Sometimes, it would shut up for a few minutes and Owen would think he’d finally found some peace, only for it to start back up again the moment he closed his eyes. It seemed the world really was determined to keep him awake. Would Curt mind if he went outside in the middle of the night to kill an owl? Surely not. It would be a relief for both of them.</p><p>He paced around the room. If he exhausted himself, hopefully he would just pass out. After about ten minutes, he ended up making himself dizzy. He laid back on the bed and closed his eyes. Surely now he would sleep. Any second now. Just a little longer. Any second.</p><p>He opened his eyes at the sound of another loud hoot. He glared at the ceiling, seething with anger. There was doubt about it. He was going to kill that owl.</p><p>Maybe he just needed a change of environment. Being in the same room for five days straight (seven counting the two he’d been sleeping) wasn’t good for someone like him. He was used to rapid changes. Staying in one spot was probably making him ill. Could four walls alone cause insomnia?</p><p>After the dizziness had passed, he pulled himself up and decided to go on a little walk. He’d made a lot of progress since his first shaky attempt at standing and he was going to make the most of it. He couldn’t go outside. The front door was locked, and it was far too cold for him to be comfortable without a decent coat. Besides, Curt was well tuned into the sound of doors opening and closing. It was a trait most spies ended up adopting. Part of him was convinced that unexplained noises in the middle of the night, paired with the idea that Owen might be wandering off unprotected and without warning, might give the mess of a man a heart attack. The last thing he needed was to end up doing emergency first aid. They would be a hopeless case if they were both hurt. Still, he could walk around the house and make a few laps around the front room. Curt would be asleep by now, so he wouldn’t have to worry about disturbing him. It would be a good chance to root around the draws and see if he could find the missing photograph, which he had found himself thinking about more often than he’d like to admit.</p><p>He crept onto the landing, being sure his footsteps fell as softly as humanly possible. Curt’s door was closed. Was that a good sign? Did Curt sleep with door open or shut? He used to know these things, but all that information had been pushed out by blueprints and mission briefs. He never thought he might need it again. He decided to make the gamble and continue downstairs. 50:50 odds were pretty good. It wasn’t until he was at the bottom that he realised his mistake. The door the front room was slightly ajar. Through the crack, Owen could see the grey static on TV, the daily broadcast having ended hours ago, and Curt’s figure sat on the sofa, illuminated by the light. Owen couldn’t see his face, which seemed to be fixed on the static, but he could see the half empty glass of golden liquid clutched in his hand.</p><p>Owen turned around. It wasn’t too late to go back to his room and spend the night being mocked by the owl. The floor creaked after a few small steps. He froze, cursing himself for not being more careful. It was like fate had it out for him. Maybe it was okay. Maybe he hadn’t been noticed yet.</p><p>“Owen?” Fate definitely had it out for him. Owen huffed and spun around. He gently pushed open the door and walked a few steps into the room.</p><p>“Curt.” He answered firmly. He had got a lot better at speaking clearly now that the initial shock of their reunion had passed. Now it was gone, he wasn’t sure what he was left with. The anger was still there, that would surely never go, but it was tinged with something else. A kind of sadness that ate away at as his mind day and night. He wasn’t sure what he was sad about, no single answer seemed to fit, and that made it all the more frustrating. It was like grief; that deep feeling that something had been lost, that would fade away into the quiet, until it would suddenly swallow him up again without warning. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt that way.</p><p>No, that wasn’t true. He remembered exactly the last time he felt that way. The last time he’d experienced anything close to this level of sadness, he’d been in a Chimera training facility, trying to figure out where his life was going.</p><p>But this wasn’t the same as then. He had no reason to feel the way he did. Back then it had made sense. He had actually lost something. He had lost everything. Now was an entirely different story. Nothing had been lost and nothing had been gained. He wanted to keep it that way.</p><p>“Sneaking off already?” Asked Curt. Funny, he hadn’t actually thought of just grabbing his bag and walking out in the middle of the night.</p><p> “Actually, I’m going to kill an owl.”</p><p>“Oh, you’ve met hooty?” Curt smiled back at him.</p><p>“Um…yeah.” He named the bloody owl. Somebody needed to force him out of the house more. “Friend of yours?”</p><p>“God no. Hooty is fucking bastard.”</p><p>“Right?” Owen exclaimed. He threw himself down on the sofa next to Curt, already too caught up in his rage at the vile bird to think about how close they were sitting. “I mean why on Earth would any creature feel the need to make that much noise?”</p><p>“Exactly.” Curt nodded.</p><p>“Urgh I could just go out there with a bat and…” He mimed swinging wildly, causing Curt to laugh.</p><p>“Yeah, or strangle it.”</p><p>“I’m not sure if you can strangle an owl, Curt. They don’t really have necks.”</p><p>“Well, I’m pretty sure you strangle any animal if you try hard enough. Maybe if you sort of…get beneath the head.”</p><p>“Hmm maybe.” Owen agreed, though he really had no idea. It was just nice to hear Curt talk so openly again.</p><p>“Oh hey, do you want a drink?” Curt put his own glass down and picked up an open clear bottle, which he waved in front of Owen’s face. Half empty already. How could one man drink that fast?</p><p>“Oh. Um…I don’t have a cup so…”</p><p>“You don’t need a cup to drink, Owen. That’s what bottles are for.”  He grinned, taking a large swig from the bottle itself. Owen sighed. At least he knew where the openness was coming from.</p><p>“I actually don’t drink.”</p><p>“Bullshit. You used to take shots like it was on the end of the world.” Back then it often felt like could be any day. With the kind of information the two of them were privy to, it was easy to think that the sky was falling. Still, bars and hotel rooms made the imminent apocalypse oh so fun.</p><p>“Yeah, when I was a nineteen year old misusing a fake ID. At twenty-six it’s more of a challenge.” Owen snorted.</p><p>“You talk like we’re old.” Curt grumbled.</p><p>“Yes, yes ancient and decrepit.” Owen smirked as he snatched the bottle from Curt’s hand and gently placed it on the floor beside him. “No, Curt. We’re not even close to old. Our lives are just beginning.”</p><p>“If you say so.” Curt muttered.</p><p>“I do say so. Don’t go counting yourself out just yet.” Owen leant back on the sofa and softly hit Curt’s shoulder with the back of his hand. He smiled at the static, waiting for a reply. Yet none came. He scowled and turned to Curt. He was lost in that little world again, just watching Owen’s hand like it was some alien creature. “Hey Curt?”</p><p>“What?” Curt’s head perked up to make eye contact. The sudden noise seemed to shock him.</p><p>“Could you not?”</p><p>“Not what?”</p><p>“Stare at me like that.”</p><p>“Sorry.” Curt mumbled. “It’s just…it’s just still kind of surprising.”</p><p>“I know.” Owen nodded sympathetically. He hadn’t really considered what coming back had actually meant. He knew Curt thought he was dead, but it had always felt like an isolated fact, clear cut and irrelevant. Part of him had forgotten that while he kept living after his death certificate had been signed, Curt had fully believed that he was gone forever. Not just from his life, but from the world. When someone has accepted a reality like that, the idea of it changing is unthinkable. So, what did it mean for Curt that it had?</p><p>“I mean…you’re…real.”</p><p>“Yep, really real.”</p><p>“It’s just…I mean it’s all-“</p><p>“Come on, Curt, you dressed my wounds a week ago. Surely that was enough confirmation that I’m real.” Owen smiled in an attempt to lighten the mood. He couldn’t tell if it was working though.</p><p>“Yes, well that was my first clue.” Curt chuckled. “Hallucinations don’t tend to bleed.”</p><p>“Tend to?” Owen raised an eyebrow. Did that mean some did bleed? How often was Curt hallucinating anyway?</p><p>“It’s not important.” Curt waved dismissively. “When did you stop drinking anyway?”</p><p>“Oh, sometime early in 1958 I think.” Owen shrugged.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Well at first it played havoc with the pain medication I was on and after that I just didn’t like the way it made me feel so…” He stopped, leaving the thought hanging. He wasn’t helping.</p><p>“Did it hurt?”</p><p>“Did what hurt?” Quitting drinking? It had actually been remarkably easy. Now the taste of booze reminded him far too much of late nights in pubs all over the world. The same memories that had once brought him joy now felt like drowning. Some people drank to forget. Owen quit for the exact same reason.</p><p>“Dying.” Owen went tense. Curt asked with such sincerity that he didn’t know how to answer. He was sitting right there, real as day. Could Curt not see that? How could he make him see that he wasn’t gone? That he had never actually been gone.</p><p>He grabbed Curt’s hand so fast that he didn’t have time to react. Not that he would have fought back anyway. Owen could see from the shock in his eyes that he wouldn’t know the right thing to do. He hoisted it up, so it was in front of both of their faces. Their fingers intertwined as Owen squeezed as tight as he could without causing one of them an injury.</p><p>“Do you feel that?” He asked bluntly, trying to ignore the slight tremble that had crept into voice.</p><p>“Urr y-yeah. Yeah, I feel it.” Curt nodded frantically.</p><p>“You feel that because we’re alive. We’re both alive. I’m not dead, I have never been dead. I am alive and I’m real and I’m here. I have always been…”</p><p>He threw their hands down and let go, quickly turning away before Curt could see the few rouge tears that had rolled down his cheeks. He nonchalantly wiped them away with his sleeve, trying to play it off as something in his eye. It was supposed to be a neutral demonstrate to prove a simple point. Just another objective fact. But the frustration had risen in his voice before he had a chance to realise it. There were more tears fighting to get out, but he forced them to stay balled up in his chest. He could have gone on. He could have said it all. He wanted to scream at Curt about how he had always been there, how he had always gone on moving. When they were younger and Curt barely noticed him, he’d kept going. When their limited time together ended and they had no idea when they’d get another chance to see each other, he’d kept going. When Curt had abandoned him without even thinking, he’d kept going. There was no other way. Unlike Curt, he couldn’t just stop or look back. He could only go forward. He had <em>always </em>been there. Always longing, always alone.</p><p>“The fall then.” Curt prompted. “Did that hurt?”</p><p>“Well now, let’s see. Did falling the equivalent of around three stories, right before an explosion, hurt?” He asked mockingly. Good, sarcasm. Sarcasm always protected to him.</p><p>It should have been an easy question to answer, but it ended up seeming incredibly difficult, because if he was totally honest, he wasn’t sure that it had. Sure, had been acutely aware that he was injured. He was sure that he also must have been in pain. But even in the moment, his mind and his body hadn’t quite been able to match. It was incredible what the human brain could do when it was sure death was on the horizon. The shock and the adrenaline had left him numb, like all the pain he was feeling belonged to someone else. Nothing had felt real. Even his thoughts had been fuzzy. All he could do is lay there, unable to move, watching the blurry figure of the man who had sworn to always protect him he leave, certain he would not get into heaven. None of that hurt. Waking up week later on the other hand, that had hurt.</p><p>“To be honest with you, Curt, I don’t remember.” He finally answered. He wished he hadn’t turned down that drink.</p><p>“I’m sorry.” Curt said quietly. Owen gulped. There was that stupid sense of loss again. He hadn’t realised how long he’d been waiting to hear those words.</p><p>“Just forget about it.” He muttered.</p><p>“You know if I could go back-“</p><p>“You can’t.”</p><p>“I know, but if I could-“</p><p>“But you can’t.” Owen snapped. “You can never go back. No one can.”</p><p>“Right.” Curt mumbled.</p><p>The tension in the room was suffocating. He should just go. He could deal with the dumb owl. It would be better for them both if they just spent their time separately, as far apart as they could manage. He thrived alone.</p><p>No, it wasn’t right. They couldn’t live with every conversation going sour. He was going to make sure they had a good night, regardless of how much effort he had to put in.</p><p>“What about fish?” He asked.</p><p>“…Fish?”</p><p>“You said you could strangle any animal if you tried hard enough. What about fish?”</p><p>“Oh…” Curt paused, considering the question. “Are fish animals?”</p><p>“Yes, Curt.” Owen laughed.</p><p>“Well…they don’t breathe air. Plus, they’re normally pretty small. I think it would be pretty difficult.” Curt reasoned.</p><p>“Ah, but we never said anything about how easy it would be.”  Owen pointed out with a smile. “We’re only talking about possibility.”</p><p>They continued to talk through out the night. It was more than small talk now, but they avoided anything too heavy. They just stuck to the stupid things. Animals and school stories and silly jokes. The kind of things they had discussed when they hardly knew each other at all. And it worked. In time, they were having fun. For a few short hours, it was like nothing had ever happened to either of them. There was no future. There was no past. All there had ever been was each passing moment. Before Owen knew it, the sky was threatening dawn, and he’d completely forgotten how tired he was.</p><p>“And that is why football is a stupid game for stupid people.” Curt finished explaining. Owen wasn’t sure how long he’d been rambling, but it had been quite a while. He’d been starting to wonder if he’d ever hear Curt speak so much again at all. He definitely never thought he’d talk so long about sports.</p><p>“American football.” Owen corrected. “Real football is actually played with your feet.”</p><p>“Yeah, well, I bet that’s stupid too.” Curt yawned.</p><p>“Tired?”</p><p>“Absolutely not.” Said Curt as he stretched and leaned back on the sofa.</p><p>“Yes, you are. Go to bed.”</p><p>“I’m fine. I just need to rest my eyes for a second.” Curt closed his eyes and crossed his arms over himself.</p><p>“Well, now who’s the old man?”</p><p>“Sure, I’m an old, old man who needs to rest his eyes. Let me have this.” He yawned again. This time, he was asleep within seconds.</p><p>Owen couldn’t help but smile as he got to his feet. He turned off the TV, which they had completely forgotten about as the night went on, and turned to leave. As he did, he spotted the still unscrewed bottle on the floor. His smile dropped as reality sank back in. As quickly as it faded, it all came back. Who he was, who Curt was, the things they had both become. A few good hours didn’t erase what happened, nothing could, but they were happy weren’t they? For a little while he had been happy. Curt had been happy. They’d both been okay.</p><p>Curt would always be guilty. Things would never be the same. Questions about what they’d both done would always hang between them. But the thought of punishing Curt didn’t feel right. How could he possibly take revenge on someone who had done all the work for him? He took the bottle and carried it to the kitchen, along with the dirty glass. He poured the contents of both down the sink. No more alcohol, no more pain. It was too much to ask that they always be happy, but they could be okay. Okay would be enough.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sorry football fans. It's nothing personal.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Cooking Lessons</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sometimes the path to recovery is the less about medicine and bandages and more about spilled eggs and flour.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Alright, Curt and Owen can have some domestic fluff, as a treat.</p>
<p>No major content warnings for this one I think, but there are a lot of food mentions if that's something you struggle with.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Time had always passed weirdly for Owen. Maybe it came with the job, but he was sure it had been a problem long before he’d even considered becoming a spy. Sometimes, the hours would drag endlessly no matter what he did to try and pass them. Other times, he could blink and a whole day would be gone. If there was any rhyme or reason to it, he certainly couldn’t tell. All he knew was that when he closed his eyes dawn was just on the horizon and when he opened them again the sun was high in the sky. He stretched his arms and sat up, strangely disoriented. He’d finally done it. He’d actually managed to sleep.</p>
<p>He peered out the window. At a guess, it was around 11am, noon at the latest, and Curt hadn’t come to bother him yet. Which probably wasn’t a good sign. It wasn’t like he was busy. Owen wasn’t really sure what he did all day. From what he could tell, he just sat there and watched television. Not good television either. He watched soap operas, Search for Tomorrow and Guiding Light and the like. The kind of show he thought even Curt would be above. He used to have taste.</p>
<p>Owen crept downstairs. Partly in search of food, partly to figure out where Curt was. On his way to the kitchen, instinct struck, and he peaked around the living room door. Curt hadn’t moved since the night before. He had slept the entire time. All their talking must have tired him out. How long had they sat together anyway? It must have been hours.</p>
<p>Up until the failed mission that had forced him back into Curt’s life, returning had never been a legitimate option. However, that didn’t mean he hadn’t imagined what it would be like. Sometimes, especially in the early days, he couldn’t help but wonder ‘what if’?  What if he just went back? What if he made himself known? He always knew that it would be uncomfortable, regardless of what he did or said, and it had turned out he was right. It just wasn’t uncomfortable in the way he imagined. He thought he would walk into a life that was unchanged, to Curt still a smug, self-confident twenty-four-year-old. It was easy to forget that three years had slipped away. Now everything had changed. The Curt he’d known and the Curt that was sleeping were two very different people. As he stood there, Owen found himself with a sickening feeling so much more stifling than the hate he’d come to accept, a feeling that he wished would pass but knew wouldn’t. He missed his idiot. He couldn’t let him be lost forever.</p>
<p>He approached Curt and knelt down in front of him. Things were going to get better. He was going to make them.</p>
<p>“Hey…hey.” He whispered, lightly tapping Curt’s shoulder to get his attention. All he got in response was a slight grumble. Stupid light sleeper. Time for more extreme tactics.</p>
<p>“Hey.” He shouted, instantly causing Curt to jolt awake.</p>
<p>“Jesus, Owen.” Curt groaned as he wiped the sleep out of his eyes with his sleeve.</p>
<p>“You are going to get your shit together.” Owen ordered, pointing his finger in Curt’s face.</p>
<p>“Ah, good morning to you too.”</p>
<p>“You can’t keep going on like you’re the one who died. You’re going to get up, you’re going to eat something that doesn’t come out of a can, and you’re going to shave that terrible excuse for facial hair you’ve got going on.”</p>
<p>“I like this beard.” Curt snapped.</p>
<p>“It’s not a beard, Curt, it’s an unchecked bramble patch.” Owen commented.</p>
<p>“I’m growing it out. It’s going to look nice.” He insisted.</p>
<p>“Curt, you look like you’ve spent the last few years on a desert island isolated from any shaving product or human interaction. Which from that I can tell isn’t far off what happened.” Owen got to his feet and headed to the kitchen before Curt could attempt to defend himself further. Not that Curt could ever convince him the beard was a good idea.</p>
<p>“Were you always this mean or is this a recent development?” Curt called after him. Owen started routing through his cupboards, providing no answer. He smirked at the sound of Curt rushing to join him. Sure, he’d always had a slight edge, but he never really considered it as meanness. It was more of a harsh motivator. It was how he got Curt to move and it worked every time.</p>
<p>“I interact with people.” Curt insisted. He was stood in the doorway, watching Owen pull out a cream-coloured ceramic mixing bowl. He was sure he’d seen the bowl before at Curt’s mum’s house. It was sweet to know Ms Mega was still looking after her boy.</p>
<p>“Oh really?” Owen asked as he set the bowl down on the countertop.</p>
<p>“Yeah, I talk to people all the time.”</p>
<p>“Sure.” He spun around to check Curt’s alarmingly bare fridge. This was going to be way harder than he thought. “So, if I got all the people you talked to in say…a week, and then removed grocery store cashiers, the people who run the liquor store, and the mailman, how many people would you be left with?”</p>
<p>“Um…more than zero.”</p>
<p>“Well, that’s a start.” He sighed. He grabbed two eggs and a bottle of milk that was two days out of date. He placed the eggs down next to the bowl, unscrewed the bottle lid, and gave it a sniff. Good enough. No butter or oil though. He was just going to have to pray Curt’s pan wouldn’t stick. “Do you have any flour?”</p>
<p>“I think so. Why?”</p>
<p>“For pancakes.” Owen smiled cheerfully. “You can’t be sad if you have pancakes.”</p>
<p>“Owen, I’m not letting you cook when you’re supposed to be resting.” Curt scowled.</p>
<p>“Curt, relax. I’m walking, I’m talking, I’m fine. Besides, I’m not cooking. You are.”</p>
<p>“What?” Curt exclaimed. Owen laughed. Be bad as it may, Curt’s confusion always managed to amuse him.</p>
<p>“Well, <em>we</em> are. I’m not going to leave you completely in the dark on this one. Flour.”</p>
<p>Curt huffed and reached into a draw beneath the counters. He pulled out a blue bag covered in soft white powder, which promptly handed over to Owen. It probably hadn’t been used for years, possibly not since the last time Owen had used the kitchen, but he was reasonably confident that flour didn’t go out of date. He inspected the label. It was the wrong kind, self-raising rather than plain, but he could make it work. They would just have to be thick, scotch pancakes instead.</p>
<p>“You know that I can’t cook, right?”</p>
<p>“Oh, I’m painfully aware.” Owen nodded before setting the flour and milk down with eggs. “Sometime in the middle of 1956 I put our cooking lessons on temporary hiatus.”</p>
<p>“Temporary? I was always under the impression it was supposed to be permanent. You told me to never cook again. I’m pretty sure you threatened me.”</p>
<p>“Don’t be dramatic.”</p>
<p>“You did. You said ‘Curt Mega, if you even think about touching a frying pan in my presence, I’ll beat you over the head with it’” Curt whined. Owen smiled at the memory. He’d been joking, of course, but he was never 100% sure that Curt knew that. Either way, Curt hadn’t gone near a frying pan. Oh, that reminded him, he was going to need one of those. He reached into another cupboard and effortlessly retrieved the silver metal pan, which he placed down on the black hobs on top of white oven. As it turned out, he remembered the layout of Curt’s kitchen remarkably well.</p>
<p>“Well anyway, the hiatus is over. Now get over here.”</p>
<p>“Owen, I don’t-“</p>
<p>“Come on, they teach this stuff to girl guides. You’ll be fine.” Owen tugged him gently by the sleeve and lead him towards the bowl. Curt sighed and let it happen. For such a strong-willed man, he could be remarkably easy to sway. “Now, remember how we made plain omelettes?”</p>
<p>“Sure.” Curt shrugged.</p>
<p>“Pancakes are basically omelettes with extra steps. It’s very simple.” He free hand poured the flour into the bowl upon realising he didn’t have anything to measure with. Never mind, recipes were for amateurs anyway. He added a splash of milk before cleanly cracking one egg into the bowl. All easy so far. Time for the tricky part.</p>
<p>“Now you.” He said, holding the uncracked egg up for Curt to take. Curt looked at it apprehensively. He’d always been so odd. He could grab a grenade and run with it no questions asked, but an egg was just a little too much. “Come on, I’ve seen you do it before.”</p>
<p>“Alright.” Curt took the egg and approached the bowl. He tapped it too softly at first, not even causing a dent in the shell. On his second try, he threw it down far too hard, causing it crack unevenly and half of the yoke to go running down the side. Still, at least some of it managed to get inside the bowl, so he hadn’t failed entirely.</p>
<p>“Great.” Owen beamed. His chirpier tone was more transparent than a window, but it was the best he could manage. “We’re going to need a spoon.”</p>
<p>“Oh right.” Curt rustled through a disorganised above head cabinet before eventually retrieving a metal tablespoon. Owen raised an eyebrow. Was he serious? “Look, I’m not stupid. I just don’t have any other spoons.”</p>
<p>“Well, it will have to do. Mix that until it’s smooth.” He said, tapping the side of the bowl.</p>
<p>Curt obeyed. He did a surprisingly good job too, despite the less than ideal tools.  Improvisation had always been a skill of theirs and a surprisingly versatile one. Improvised pancakes, improvised explosives. Same concept, different ingredients.</p>
<p>“Wasn’t there something you always used you cook for me?” Asked Curt.</p>
<p>“I used to cook a lot of things for you, Curt.” Owen replied without looking. It was far too busy trying to adjust the gas. It was going to be a struggle to reach a temperature where the mixture would cook but not stick, especially without anything to grease the pan with.</p>
<p>“I know, but there was one particular thing. God, what was it? Waffles? Hash browns?”</p>
<p>“Definitely not hash browns. I made them for you <em>once </em>and you looked like you wanted to spit them out and throw out up the whole time.”</p>
<p>“I think that was more the hangovers fault than yours. I just wish I could remember.”</p>
<p>“It’s not important, Curt.” Sighed Owen. He straightened back up, finally satisfied that the temperature was right. Part of him wished he could remember too. Another was determined to keep the memory hidden. Dwelling on such soft moments was a dangerous game. He wasn’t there to get attached again, no matter what mixed emotions he had. He was just there to help, that was all. Just until things were better.</p>
<p>“But it <em>is </em>important. It was part of us.” Curt insisted.</p>
<p>“A lot of things were part of us. That doesn’t make them important. It’s not like any of that stuff matters now. Pour that into the pan will you.”</p>
<p>“I guess not.” Curt grabbed the bowl with both hands. “You know it’s funny, even though you’ve gone all this time hating me, we never actually officially broke up.”</p>
<p>Owen flinched at the hiss of the batter hitting the pan. Oh lord, he was right. The last time they’d seen each other, the point at which their relationship froze in Curt’s head, they were still very much in love. They hadn’t even discussed where they were now.</p>
<p>“No, I guess not.” He mumbled.</p>
<p>“Don’t worry, I kind of presumed it.” Curt assured him. Owen never expected to have this conversation with him so casually.</p>
<p>“Good…what makes you think I hate you?”</p>
<p>“Owen, despite what you might think of me, I’m not actually an idiot. If you still loved me, even if you liked me, you would have contacted me.”</p>
<p>“Maybe it wasn’t that simple.” Owen muttered.</p>
<p>“Well, am I wrong?”</p>
<p>Less than a week ago that would have been such an easy question to answer. He would have said yes in a heartbeat. Yes, he hated him, with every fibre of his being. Everything he was and everything he stood for. Now it wasn’t so simple. He wanted to cling to that hate. It had been a part of him for so long that it had become part of his identity. Owen Carvour, the man who swore revenge. It had been his lifeblood, his fuel. But while the anger and the grief stayed, the hatred had faded to a point where even calling it that felt like a lie. The Curt that stood before him now wasn’t a man he could hate and that complicated things far more, because what was he without his hate?</p>
<p>“Just…keep your eyes on the pan, Curt.” He grumbled.</p>
<p>The mixture bubbled and popped unevenly, cooking too quickly in some spots and staying runny in others. Using self-raising flour may have been more of a problem than Owen initially predicted, because the batter was forming a strange thin dome above itself, like one giant bubble. After a few seconds, it burst, sending bits tumbling back into the pan and splashing onto the countertops upon impact.</p>
<p>“Told you this wouldn’t go well.” Curt remarked.</p>
<p>“We can still save it. I think if we flip it now, it might just survive.”</p>
<p>“All this is just for one? I hope they aren’t all like this.”</p>
<p>“Stop complaining. We’ll flip it together. Grab the handle.”</p>
<p>They both grabbed the handle, their hands wrapping around each other’s as they held tight. In perfect sync, they mentally counted to three before jerking the pan. The pancake flew high into the air, causing droplets of uncooked batter showering to the ground. The flip itself was flawless, turning the pancake with ease, but they’d accidentally moved themselves forward throughout the motion. It landed on the hob behind the one they were using with a wet thud. For a few seconds, all they could do was stare at it in silent defeat.</p>
<p>“Sooo…cereal?” Asked Curt.</p>
<p>“Cereal sounds good to me.” Owen nodded.</p>
<p>A few minutes later, they were back on the sofa in the living room, with a bowl of toasted rice cereal in their hands. It wasn’t the breakfast Owen had hoped for, but he enjoyed it nevertheless. It was honestly just nice to have a meal somewhere other than the guest bedroom.</p>
<p>“See Owen? Simple living is the way forward.” Curt smiled.</p>
<p>“Absolutely.” Said Owen through a mouthful of food. “Packet food really is the future.”</p>
<p>“Ah, so you’re saying I’m advanced? Guess I have my shit together after all.”</p>
<p>“That is definitely not what I’m saying.” Owen protested. “And you’re still shaving.”</p>
<p>“God damn it.” Curt huffed. “Hey, didn’t I have a bottle of whisky yesterday?”</p>
<p>Owen rolled his eyes. He had wondered how long it would take him notice. It had taken much longer than he thought.</p>
<p>“Forget about yesterday. Forget about everything that isn’t today.”</p>
<p>“That seems like it would cause way more problems than it would solve.”</p>
<p>“Hmm probably.” Owen agreed. Curt laughed. It seemed like a good time to ask a question. “Um hey, Curt, I was wondering…there used to be a picture in the guest bedroom. Where did it get to?”</p>
<p>“I thought I was supposed to forget about everything that isn’t today.” Curt smirked.</p>
<p>“Well-“</p>
<p>“I’m kidding. Wait here.” Curt placed his bowl on the floor and left the room. He returned a few minutes later, unframed photograph in hand. “It was in my draw. The glass in the frame broke ages ago and I never got around to getting a new one.”</p>
<p>He handed it over and sat back down. It was just like Owen remembered. The two of them smiling, still months away from disaster. They looked so alive back then. Only three years had passed and neither of them were even thirty yet, but they had both grown so tired. Time could erode a person so quickly.</p>
<p>“Do you remember the lady who took it?” Asked Curt.</p>
<p>“Yes.” Owen smiled. “She kept commenting on what nice young lads we were.”</p>
<p>“Such lovely gentleman.” Curt said in a mocking old lady voice. “Not like the ruffians you normally see around here.”</p>
<p>“Nice old lady. Terrible taste in hats.” Owen nodded.</p>
<p>“I think I fell off that wall a few seconds later.” Curt recalled.</p>
<p>“Probably.” Owen laughed.</p>
<p>“Maybe I should put it somewhere. A scrapbook or something. Somewhere nice.”</p>
<p>“I think you’d struggle to find enough pictures.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know. This a nice area. Maybe I’ll take up photography or something.” Curt smiled at him. Owen smiled back; it was impossible not to. There was something in Curt’s eyes now, something that Owen hadn’t realised was missing. A small glint. That tiny little spark of life. It was still distant, dim enough that a stranger would probably never notice, but Owen was no stranger, and he saw it all the same.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Shows referenced were: Search For Tomorrow (1951–1986) and Guiding Light (1952–2009). I don't actually know if they were any good or not, I've never seen them. (and yes, I did look up soaps airing in America in 1960 just for this)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Dream Of Me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Owen has no idea where he is or how he got there, but he knows this place isn't good.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>*Pats Owen on the head* Wow, you can fit so much unresolved trauma into this thing. </p><p>CONTENT WARNINGS: Warnings for nightmares, implied PTSD, loss of control, earthquakes, panic attacks, and brief period typical toxic masculinity.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Owen looked around, there was so much he didn’t know. He didn’t know where he was or how he got there. If he let his mind wander, he wasn’t even really sure who he was, so he fought to retain sharp focus with all his strength. He didn’t know where Curt was, though something told him to be relieved that he wasn’t with him. Wherever Curt was, he was safe. This place, wherever that turned out to be, was not a good one.</p><p>There were somethings he did know, even though he wished he didn’t. He knew couldn’t move no matter how hard tried, like some invisible force was pinning him down. There was something coming. Something dangerous. Something that wanted him dead. It didn’t have a name, but it was approaching with frightening speed. He had to leave, he had to leave immediately, but he couldn’t get up from the twisted position he was laying in, and even if he could, it was so dark that he didn’t think he could see his way out.</p><p>He looked up. There was a large staircase with a balcony towering above him. At the end was another wooden staircase that stretched out into the dark, infinite sky, far out of Owen’s line of sight. Stood on the balcony, he could just about see the silhouette of a man. The figure was looking around, scanning left to right, but there was no urgency in his movements. He seemed more confused than panicked. Owen narrowed his eyes to focus. The figure was familiar. He sighed in relief when realised that it was Curt. They must have been separated somehow. If he could just get him to notice, then everything would be okay. Curt would save him. Curt would protect him from the looming danger.</p><p>“Curt.” He called out. Maybe he was crazy, but he could have sworn the ground was starting to shake. It was barely noticeable first, light enough that he could put it down to his own nerves, but the tremors were rapidly gaining force. It was like an earthquake that getting more severe by the second.</p><p>He waited for a response, but he got nothing. Not even an acknowledgement. He must have heard him. There was no way he couldn’t have. Maybe he had a plan, some sort of scheme that Owen just didn’t understand yet. He was going to do something. For the love of God, he had to do something.</p><p>Curt took one last look at the stairway that would have led down to his side, before walking away. He headed up the stairs with so little care, disappearing into the endless darkness above. No, he couldn’t just leave him here. Not with this unseen threat ready to pounce. He said he’d never let him down. He promised.</p><p>There was no doubt about it now. The room was shaking so hard that Owen was sure the world was about to come down on top of him. He couldn’t see them, but he could hear the walls crumbling and debris tumble to the ground. He opened his mouth to call out one last time, but he knew it was no use. Even though he was screaming, his voice was lost among the wreckage.</p><p>“Curt.” He jolted himself awake. His heart was racing as he struggled to catch his breath. He put a hand to his chest, unsure for a second that he was really back. His cheeks were wet. He must have started crying in his sleep and now that was awake, he couldn’t stop. He didn’t fight them. He just let them silently pour. Stupid dream. It didn’t matter how strong he grew, the dumb thing always cut him down.</p><p>The door burst open, sending a large bang booming through the room. Owen flinched at the sound. Everything seemed so much louder than it should have.</p><p>“Freeze. Get on the ground.” Curt yelled into the dark. Fucking dumbass. What the Hell did he think was doing? The light clicked on, confirming that he was definitely safely back in bed where he belonged.</p><p>“Owen? What happened? Are you alright?” Curt asked frantically.</p><p>“I’m fine. I just-“ He swung is legs over the side of the bed and looked to Curt, who had finally shaved in the two days since the pancake incident and looked so much better for it. In his shaky hands, Owen spotted a small black pistol, pointed in a disarmed position towards the ground. “Is that a fucking gun?” He exclaimed.</p><p>“Um…yes.” Curt replied, seemly just as confused by the development as him.</p><p>“Why do you have a gun, Curt?” Owen snapped.</p><p>“You screamed. I thought you were in danger. Maybe someone had got in here or-“</p><p>“If someone broke in I wouldn’t be the one screaming, you absolute…” He cut himself off. Talking was taking up far too much air and there seemed to be so little of it. God, he was going to suffocate in this stupid little room. He pulled his knees close to his chest and buried his face, unable to stop himself from sobbing. He was sure he looked pathetic. This wasn’t how a Chimera agent wasn’t supposed to act. It wasn’t how a man was supposed to act. But he couldn’t help it. Maybe if he made himself small enough, he could shield himself from all the things that hurt him.</p><p>He heard Curt gently set the gun down on the bedside table and knelt down in front of him. Why couldn’t he just leave him alone? He didn’t want this ever-watching presence around him. He just wanted to disappear. A hand reached for his. He instinctively took it, letting the soft touch ground him. Slowly, he let himself uncoil, as if rushing would let the world back in too fast.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay. Take your time. I’m here as long as you need me.” Curt assured him.</p><p>As long as he needed him. Yeah right. How could he say that with such certainty? Owen had no doubt that he wanted to be, Curt would probably stay by his side forever if they had the choice. But that was the problem. They didn’t have that choice. They never did. Curt could make whatever promises he liked. He could say that he would always be there or that he would never let him down, but there would always be something to tear them apart. There would be a storm they couldn’t weather or a fight they couldn’t win. Even if he could somehow walk away from Chimera and live the civilian life, anything could happen. In a month or a year, tomorrow or decades into the future, they would be separated again, and for all his insistence that he’d moved on, Owen would never be ready. He would always need Curt.</p><p>As long as he could. That was a better promise. Curt would be with him as long as he <em>could. </em>He always had. Mistakes had been made in the past, they would both make more in the future, but there was no denying that they had always loved each other to the best of their ability, and they would never truly stop. Not until something made them.</p><p>He sat up and took deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In, then out. In, then out. Until at last the world felt right again.</p><p>“Better?” Curt asked softly.</p><p>“I think so.” Owen sniffed. His voice was still a little shaky and his eyes were still damp, but he’d managed to stop crying.</p><p>“Good. Do you want to talk about it?”</p><p>“No.” He shook his head. He didn’t want to be reminded of the nightmare now that he was awake. This one stayed his, no matter what.</p><p>“Okay. I’ll let you go back to sleep. Call me if you need anything, okay?” Curt rose to his feet and retrieved the gun. As he turned his back and walked away, Owen found a twinge of panic rising in him all over again.</p><p>“Curt?” He whispered. Curt stopped in the doorway and looked back, patiently waiting for him continue. What he wanted to say might make him sound weak, but he didn’t care. He still wanted to say it anyway. No, he needed to say it, the same way he needed to say it three years ago but hadn’t been able to. “Please don’t go.”</p><p>For a moment there was silence. Had he overstepped some unspoken boundary. After all, he still didn’t really know where they were in their interactions. He certainly didn’t know where they were going. Then Curt smiled, such a warm, gentle smile that Owen couldn’t feel afraid in its presence.</p><p>“Okay.” Curt nodded. He stowed the gun away in a draw and sat down beside him. He offered up his hand once for and Owen took it without question. There was much safety in those hands. Before he knew it, he was leaning his head on Curt’s shoulder. Being close to him offered protection. Perhaps not from the world, but at least from himself.</p><p>“It’s okay. Just go back to sleep. I’m right here.”</p><p>Owen closed his eyes. Curt ran his hands through his hair, lulling him to sleep. It was safe here. Safe and warm. Even if it couldn’t last forever, this was where he belonged.</p><p>“I love you.” He muttered as he drifted off to more pleasant dreams.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Plot progression and the writer gets to vent about their own sleeping issues? That's like a fan fiction 2 for 1!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Reset</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Unsure of where his actions the night before leaves things, Owen takes the plunge and decides to discuss the next steps of their relationship.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>No major warnings for this one. Enjoy.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Warm. That was the first thing Owen thought when he woke up.  He was still groggy and half asleep, a slight chill from the drizzling rain came off the window, but he was safe and warm and that’s all he needed to know. He rolled over, wrapping himself tight in the snug blankets. If only this moment could last forever. With a content sigh, he opened his eyes, to find himself staring at the sleeping Curt. It took him a few seconds to comprehend what was going on, before he remembered the fear of the night before. He grimaced.</p><p>He messed up.</p><p>Curt stirred, meeting Owen’s dazed expression with a smile.</p><p>“Good morning.” Curt whispered.</p><p>“H-hey.” Owen stuttered.</p><p>“Feeling better?”</p><p>“Um…yeah. Yeah, I think so.” He nodded and sat up. The confusion was certainly better than sheer blind panic or sickening fear. That didn’t make it any less irritating.</p><p>“Good.” He smiled. He stretched and climbed out of bed, either not noticed or refusing to acknowledge Owen’s confused expression, which he knew he wasn’t hiding well. He wasn’t even trying to.</p><p>It wasn’t the situation that was confusing him. Tracing back each step they’d taken to get this point was easy. He remembered his dream, the same way he was cursed with remembering all his dreams. He remembered that moment of vulnerability, that need to reach out to some form of safety. He remembered <em>needing </em>Curt. That’s where the confusion was. After everything, it had still come down to the two of them together. When the darkness came and there was nobody else to see, Curt was still the one he trusted. When he said he loved him, it hadn’t been a lie.</p><p>Well, it didn’t <em>feel</em> like a lie.</p><p>Surely it couldn’t be that simple. Could it? He couldn’t still be that naïve. Love was a very dangerous emotion. It could cut deeper than any knife if handled wrong, and that they both knew a lot about handling it wrong. Accidents happened, in the end they both had to learn to live with that, but accidents didn’t have to be meaningless. Accidents were lessons in disguise. Owen had learned not to love and not to let people in. Doing so would surely get him hurt.</p><p>Yet still he couldn’t stop himself.</p><p>“Oh, I’m going to the grocery store today. Is there anything you particularly want?” Asked Curt. “Snacks, drinks, specific foods? Keep the foods simple though because we’re no where near ready to try anything complex.”</p><p>“No thank you. Just get what feels right.” Owen mumbled.</p><p>“Will do.” Curt smiled.</p><p>“Cheers.” He had to say something. Leaving it unaddressed wouldn’t be fair to him. It certainly wouldn’t be fair to Curt. “Um, hey Curt?”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“About last night.”</p><p>“What about it?”</p><p>“About…what I said.” Please don’t make him say it again. Please just this once understand.</p><p>“Oh, that.” Curt chuckled.</p><p>“Yeah, that.” Owen muttered.</p><p>“It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean it.”</p><p>“Oh…okay that’s good. That’s all…good.” Well, that made things easier. They were still at the exact same point as they were the night before, peacefully co-existing. No harm, no foul. So why didn’t that feel right? It had felt like something had changed and it couldn’t just be his imagination. No way could Curt brush him off that easily. “H-how do you know?”</p><p>“You were scared, you were half asleep. People say stupid things.” Curt explained.</p><p>“Right.” But it wasn’t stupid. Well, maybe it was. It was hard to tell. “But…what if I did mean it?”</p><p>“Well, did you or didn’t you?”</p><p>“I’m…not sure it’s that simple.” He mumbled.</p><p>“Owen, don’t do this.” Curt huffed.</p><p>“Do what?” Owen scowled.</p><p>“Play with me like that.”</p><p>“I’m not.” He snapped. “It’s just…” He paused. It was just what? “Do you think there’s a place in between?”</p><p>“In between?”</p><p>“In between loving someone and not?”</p><p>“Like…a halfway point?” Asked Curt.</p><p>“Yeah, like a halfway point.”</p><p>“I don’t know, Owen. You’re the only man I’ve really loved, and I know I’ve never ‘halfway’ loved you.” Curt sighed. Owen couldn’t deny that. A lot of things about Curt had been in question over the years, but his love was never one of them.</p><p>“Okay. We can’t just…pick things up where they left off. I don’t think either of us can really manage that.”</p><p>“Of course not.” Curt agreed.</p><p>“But…do you think we could start again?”</p><p>“Start again?” He could hear the doubt in Curt’s voice. He felt it too. But it was the only option that felt right.</p><p>“I mean, obviously we can’t erase everything that happened. But if we just tried to take things from the beginning maybe…” His voice trailed off. He didn’t know how the sentence ended.</p><p>The silence hung for a few seconds. He watched Curt stand and consider. After a few endless moments, Curt stepped towards him, arm outstretched for a handshake. All Owen could do was stare at it, confused.</p><p>“Hey, I’m Curt.” Curt smiled.</p><p>“Um…Owen. Owen Carvour.” Owen replied uncertainly, lightly shaking Curt’s hand.</p><p>“Interesting accent. Where you from?” He continued, calmly pulling his hand away.</p><p>“England. More specifically Kent.” He explained, starting to feel more comfortable with this strange conversation.</p><p>“Kent? That’s pretty far away. What brings you all the way to my guest bedroom, Owen?”</p><p>“Oh well I was shot so…”</p><p>“Fascinating.” Curt nodded. “You seem like a pretty interesting guy. I’d love to get to know you more. Maybe we could go for coffee sometime. Say right now in my kitchen?”</p><p>“I don’t know. I’ll have to check my busy schedule.” Owen laughed. “Could we maybe push it back to ten minutes from now? I need to freshen up a bit first.”</p><p>“Ten minutes from now sounds good.” Curt grinned. “I’ll make breakfast. I’m going to see if I can still figure out eggs.”</p><p>“Don’t set fire to anything.” Owen called after him as he left.</p><p>“I make no promises.” Curt shouted back.</p><p>Owen smiled. For the first time in years, he felt refreshed. It was like a weight had been lifted. Fate offered so few chances to start fresh. If this was his one, he wasn’t going to waste it.</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Inescapable</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>After a month of growing compliant, Owen finds himself face to face with an unwelcomed visitor.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Owen couldn’t pinpoint the exactly how it happened, but the more days that passed, the less time he spent in the bedroom. At first, he just came downstairs to eat and help with the dishes. It felt wrong to let Curt do it all by himself. Then, he’d started helping with dinner, because while Curt’s cooking was improving, leaving him completely unattended was still a recipe for disaster. After that, he found himself sticking around for the evening soaps. They were still insanely stupid, but they certainly had a way of sucking him in. Before he knew it, he was spending all his time in the living room: reading, chatting, and just generally existing in Curt’s presence. It had been years since Owen had experienced a real connection of any kind, so he found himself unintentionally making up for lost time.</p><p>A month had passed since he’d first collapsed on Curt’s doorstep, though he rarely realised it. The weeks had gone by so fast. The winter weather had really set in over the last few days. The wind and rain had turned to snow. Hooty had fled the cold, choosing somewhere else to hibernate, much to both his and Curt’s relief. It didn’t seem like much could disturb them now. For the first time since they’d met each other, they knew something close to peace.</p><p>He sat on the sofa, flicking through the weekly newspaper as Curt buzzed around behind him, preparing to go out. Curt had been going to increasingly often for a week or two. Owen didn’t question it. As long as Curt was moving again.</p><p>“I’m thinking of getting a tree.” Curt announced.</p><p>“Any tree?” Owen asked without looking up from the paper. “I’m not sure your house can sustain forestry, dear.”</p><p>“A Christmas tree, Owen.” He clarified. “It’s only twenty days away, after all.”</p><p>Christmas. He’d completely forgotten that was coming up. Holidays had a tendency of getting lost in a life like his.</p><p>“I hope you’re not expecting a gift. I have about three Greek drachmas.” Owen smirked.</p><p>“Um…why?” Asked Curt as he zipped up his black winter coat.</p><p>“You ever know when you’re going to need it.” Well, that and he’d had his wallet swiped two days before his mission. Normally he’d it back with ease and make sure the thief never made the same mistake again, but he’d been told repeatedly to keep a low profile, so he’d let it slide. The drachmas on the other hand had been in his trouser pocket, so they’d managed to survive.</p><p>“Well, I got you back. That’s a good enough gift for me.” Curt smiled. Owen blushed. Sappy motherfucker. No wonder he’d fallen for him the first time.</p><p>“T-things seem to be really heating up in Vietnam.” He stuttered, quickly trying to move Curt’s attention. “I think you lot will be fully involved by this time next year.”</p><p>“It’s cute that you say ‘you lot’ like Britain isn’t stuck with us.”</p><p>“Ah well, you see it’s a long game. We’re trying to figure out a strategy to get our tea back.”</p><p>“Yeah, I think that might be a lost cause at this point.” Curt laughed. “Eh, I try to avoid the news anyway. It’s far too depressing.”</p><p>“Then why do you keep buying the newspaper?”</p><p>“Crosswords.”</p><p>It was probably a waste of breath explaining that he could just buy crossword books and save a ton of money in the process. It was an ultimately harmless habit and it kept Curt thinking. He wasn’t going to berate positive behaviours.</p><p>“Where are you going anyway?” Owen asked as he flipped the page.</p><p>“Town.” Curt replied far too quickly.</p><p>“Again? Second time this week.”</p><p>“Yeah, but I forgot I wanted tinsel. I’m not used to decorating. Besides I need to make a phone call.” He explained. That made sense. Owen wished he could turn his paranoia off. The latest change to the status quo put him on edge. Still, Curt was the same. It was only natural.</p><p>“You should really buy a landline.” Owen sighed.</p><p>“They’re dangerous, Owen.” Curt insisted.</p><p>“If you say so, love.” He laughed. “Calling anyone interesting?”</p><p>“Just my mum.”</p><p>“Have you told her about me?”</p><p>“Would you want me to?”</p><p>Mrs Mega had always welcomed him. He’d eaten many homecooked meals around her dinner table and spent nights in her home. She cared deeply for Curt’s ‘friends’, though it was always a struggle to hold off snickers and red faces when the subject of girlfriends came up. Sweet woman, it would be wrong to confuse her like that. Besides, she’d probably try to fight him for hurting her son so badly. She’d likely win too. Nobody in the world was more dangerous than an angry mother.</p><p>“Maybe after Christmas.” Owen mumbled.</p><p>“Whatever you say. I’ll see you later okay? Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”</p><p>“I’m not a toddler, Curt. I can look after myself for a few hours.”</p><p>“I know, I know. Love you.”</p><p>Owen smiled as Curt left the house, clicking the door shut behind him. An hour passed without incident, as he turned the bare minimum of his attention to the television. Things were always dull when Curt was gone. Even when they weren’t talking, something about having another person in the house perked his mood up. Spies, regardless of their allegiance, were supposed to be good at spending long periods of time alone, and he was, but it was something he’d been forced to grow too used to. Now that he had the choice, he’d become a little greedy in his need for companionship.</p><p>The doorbell rang. Owen rolled his eyes and ignored it. He wasn’t going to let the cold in just to get stuck talking to some door-to-door salesman. It rang twice more. He scowled. Looked like someone hadn’t met their quota today. He admired their persistence.</p><p>“You forget your key or something?” He called on the off-chance Curt had forgotten his key. That didn’t seem right. Curt always locked the door behind him. He wouldn’t let something like that slip his mind. The person outside started pressing the bell rapidly, sending short, irritating bursts of the sound through the house. Owen huffed and got up. Answering was the only way the bozo was going to sod off.</p><p>He fumbled with the lock and yanked the door open, revealing a man a neat black suit and tie repeatedly jamming his finger into the button. He looked extremely out of place in the suburban neighbourhood. It was like he was <em>trying </em>to look suspicious. Not that it mattered. If the locals hadn’t cared about Owen wandering around covered in blood, they probably wouldn’t care about one lone man in a suit. It was amazing what civilians overlooked. Owen stood there for a few seconds, glaring at the annoying stranger, before clearing his throat.</p><p>“Mr Caviar?” The man asked.</p><p>“Unfortunately.” Owen mumbled. “Though it’s actually pronounced Carvour.”</p><p>“I have a message from your superiors.” Shit. How had they found him? Why had they even bothered to look?</p><p>“Ah, and here I was thinking you were my dancing telegram.” Owen smirked, though inside he was screaming. The man wasn’t helping with the tension. He was just staring at him, expressionless. “I-it was a joke cause well…um…”</p><p>“Hilarious.” The man replied without a change in tone. He reached into his jacket pocket and handed Owen a small slip of paper, that was folded in four.</p><p>“What’s this?”</p><p>“Rendezvous point. They expect you and the information you should have collected there by the end of the week. Or, at the very least, you, since the going theory is you lost the files and chickened out. Either way, this little break of yours is over.”</p><p>Owen scowled. How dare they even consider that? The Carvour family never ‘chickened out’ of anything and he certainly wasn’t going to be the one to let down that tradition. Not for anything. He had been hurt. That was all. He was always going to go back eventually. Well, maybe that wasn’t as true as he told himself, because in truth, he hadn’t been hurt for weeks. The mark was still there, just another scar in dozens, but he barely felt it now. There was no medical reason for him to be ignoring his job so long after the fact.</p><p>“Leaving a paper trail is a little dangerous, isn’t it?” He asked.</p><p>“They wanted to make sure you had no excuses for not showing up. No mishearing, no forgetting.” The man explained.</p><p>“Trust me. I won’t forget.” Owen mumbled.</p><p>“Good…This a very nice house you’ve got here.”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>“Not yours I presume.”</p><p>“No. It’s…a friends.” Very few Chimera agents had a permanent home. Some did. Mostly the higher ups, politicians and civil servants. Smiling faces in public that pulled strings in the shadows. People like Owen however, disposable errand runners, were encouraged to stay detached. Having friends was also discouraged, but few people listened to that rule and nobody enforced it. They were only human, after all.</p><p>“A friend?”</p><p>“I do have those, you know.” Owen scowled.</p><p>“Which friend?” The man urged.</p><p>“Nobody you know about.” Owen snapped.</p><p>“Fine.” The man huffed. “This defensiveness doesn’t suit you, Mr Caviar.”</p><p>“It’s Carvour.” Owen shouted. “C-A-R-V-O-U-R. Carvour.”</p><p>“Carvour.” The man repeated. “What about the U?”</p><p>“What <em>about </em>the bloody U?” This fucking idiot. He was already disturbing his comfort; did he have to be such a nuisance on top? Owen had always been under the impression that American’s didn’t care about the letter U anyway. “Look it doesn’t matter. Do you need anything else?”</p><p>“No. That’ll be all. We’ll see in a few days.”</p><p>“Sure, whatever you say.” Owen waved dismissively. The man rolled his eyes and walked away. Owen walked back inside, being sure not to rush. He couldn’t show panic in front of the man, even though he wanted to yell so badly. He could have killed him easily. Easily and quietly. Nobody would notice. He could get rid of the body before Curt got home. Maybe Chimera would presume he’d never made it to the house. Nothing would change. But that would only by him time. Chimera would send another and another, until he either relented or was killed for being a deserter.</p><p>He locked the door. Stupid, Owen, stupid. Why did he ever think he could stay away for so long? Of course, Chimera found him. They found everyone. Under most circumstances, they probably wouldn’t have gone looking, but Owen hadn’t gone AWOL on his own time. He’d disappeared on mission. One missing agent was no big deal, but missing intel? That wasn’t the kind of thing they’d let slide. He was an idiot to think he could feign death twice.</p><p>It was alright. He just had to stay calm and think. It was Monday, so he had the whole week to come up with a plan. Maybe he would go back and forget the month had ever happened. No, that wasn’t possible. Despite his resistance, he was in far too deep. He couldn’t leave Curt behind again. Not forever. So, maybe he would go back and come up with a way out from the inside, but Chimera wasn’t stupid. They’d grow suspicious fast and that would put both him and Curt in danger. They knew he had a friend now and that would inevitably become leverage, even if they didn’t know who that friend really was.</p><p>They could run. If he a pound for every time him and Curt had ever talked about going off grid together, he’d be a rich man. It was a long shot and perhaps a commitment he wasn’t quite ready for, but nobody ever got anywhere by waiting until they were ready. Still, hiding from Chimera was much harder than escaping the careless bureaucratic gaze of the secret service. Plus, Curt would never leave. His connections had always held him back. It was the reason they had never followed through with their plan in the first place.</p><p>He had time, as long as he didn’t freak out. For now, he had to carry on as normal and make sure Curt didn’t know anything was wrong. He’d caused enough stress just by coming, let alone all the damage he’d caused by being away in the first place. The last thing he wanted was to cause more pain. If Curt thought they might be in danger, it would consume his mind, and if he knew the kind of people he was working for…</p><p>He didn’t want to think about that. Even though what Chimera was doing was right, even though they were just, Curt would never understand it. The bigger picture had always escaped him. Owen didn’t want to imagine his reaction when he realised what they were trying to accomplish.</p><p>Owen ran upstairs, vowing to hide the note until he had something resembling a plan. He retrieved his dirty blue backpack from the side of the plan and quickly unzipped it. If he hid it among the stolen files, it would surely go unnoticed. He reached down into the fabric, expecting his hand to brush the side of the papers, but he felt nothing but his cold survival gear.</p><p>Maybe it had just been buried. He routed around for anything that remotely felt like the files. After a while, rummaging turned to frustrated looking and fast spiralled into frantic searching. He tipped the gear onto the floor, leaving a disorganised pile in front of him. It was fruitless. As he stared at the mess he’d created, a hard truth set in. The files were gone.</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Knowing You</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>While searching for the missing file, Owen comes to realise an unfortunate truth.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Owen was little, around four or five, his father told him that anger was the most useless emotion a person could feel. A man could learn from sadness and thrive from joy, but anger could only ever serve as a distraction. Now that he was older, Owen had come to strongly disagree. The most useless emotion a person could feel was panic. Panic always resulted in poor planning and bad decisions. It led to things being overlooked or left behind. If he really wanted to get through this, he had to stay clear headed and weigh up his options as soon as humanly possible.</p><p>It was possible that his encounter with the messenger had rattled his nerves and blinded him to the obvious. His bag had been a mess. Things could easily get mixed up in there. He carefully searched through his belongings, until every item was spread separately across the room. No luck. The files definitely weren’t in the bag.</p><p>Option two, the loss of the file was his own fault. He had definitely picked it up, but an awful lot happened immediately after. He must have lost it the chaos of the gun fight or dropped it at some point on his journey. They’d been gone the entire month. If that was the case, he was screwed. It didn’t matter what the messenger said, misplacing sensitive information was no small offense. Going back without it was a death sentence, either for him or for Curt, who he’d inadvertently dragged into the whole mess.</p><p>No, it didn’t make sense for him to have just dropped it. He knew he had placed it in his bag and closed the zip. At no point since that moment had it been opened. Yes, a lot had happened, but the bag had stayed with him the whole time. All his attackers had fired at a distance, with only one briefly getting close, and he was on the floor by the end of the fight, never to get up again. Nobody had touched the bag. There was no way anyone could have possibly grabbed it.</p><p>Well, there was one way.</p><p>Because someone had been close enough to access the bag. Someone who had been there when he was at his most vulnerable.</p><p>Curt.</p><p>Curt had taken the bag when he was unconscious. That was a fact. He was wearing it when he collapsed, and it was by the bed when he woke up. So, he had definitely had access to it for the two days he was unconscious. There was nothing to stop him from opening the bag and taking the files without him noticing. Heck, if that had been the plan, it worked. Owen would have never known if he hadn’t tried to hide the note.</p><p>It didn’t necessarily mean anything. The bag had been soaking wet. Curt could have just put the files away for safe keeping. Bless all the dumb things he did in the name of care. After all, it wasn’t like he would know what any of that information meant. He certainly wouldn’t know what it was all for. Besides, what was he going to do about? He wasn’t a spy anymore. He was retired. At least, he claimed to be retired.</p><p>That never sat right. Owen didn’t think Curt was lying when he said he didn’t work for the American Secret Service anymore. He fully believed that he hadn’t gone on a single mission since his little mistake. But Curt would always be a spy, whether he realised it or not. It was in his nature to search and observe, though like all secret service agents he would never truly see. He would know something wasn’t right when a dead man rang his doorbell. He would have also known that Owen would never answer his questions fully. So, what else would was there to do but search his bag and take anything that looked suspicious? And Curt was no dunce. He would know confidential information when he saw it.</p><p>So why hadn’t he said anything? Had he just accepted that Owen was caught up in some shady business and moved on? It seemed unlikely. Curt would never throw away his ingrained sense of morality so easily. He had always clung to the understanding of right and wrong that <em>they </em>had given him. No amount of love could save them from that. He must have been binding his time, trying to figure out the truth while keeping Owen close. All the going out, the sneaking around. The fucking phone call. His curiosity must have gotten the better of him, forcing him back to Cynthia and Barb. He would call them connections, maybe even friends, but Owen knew better. They were just another way for the agencies to keep their claws in him, long after he believed that he had walked away. Chimera was cruel, yes, but in a way, Owen had been lucky. He had been blessed with an understanding of the world that Curt would never have. There would be pain and heartbreak before their success, but at least Owen could tell what they were working for. At least he knew for certain what the meaning behind his actions was. Curt, on the other hand, would always be working towards a vague notion of justice, regardless of what got destroyed in the process. As long as the agencies had him convinced that it was for the greater good, he would be a liar dressed as the love of his life. In the end, Curt would always let him fall.</p><p>He heard footsteps approaching the doorstep. Owen glanced out the window to see Curt fumbling in his coat for his keys. Without the time to repack, he quickly shoved the gear under the bed and ran down the stairs, nearly tripping on the way down. He slung himself back onto the sofa and grabbed the newspaper just in time to avoid being seen as the door opened.</p><p>“I’m back.” Curt called. “Owen?”</p><p>“Still in the living room.” Owen shouted back. He glanced back for a moment as Curt walked in, noticing the lack of bags. His cover was getting sloppy. “Did you get the tinsel?”</p><p>“Oh shit. No, I forgot. I’ll get it next time.”</p><p>“Hmm, better get on it before you run out of time.” Owen muttered.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Before Christmas.” He smiled.</p><p>“We’ve got weeks, Owen. Don’t worry about it.”</p><p>“I’m not worried. Not worried about a thing. How’s your mum?”</p><p>“She’s fine. Still reading that newspaper?”</p><p>Changing the subject, hey? That was fine. Now that Owen knew the truth, the disguise was wearing thin.</p><p>“No actually, I’ve moved onto the crossword. Don’t worry, I haven’t filled it out, so you still get to do that.”</p><p>“Much appreciated.” Curt grinned. “How’s it going?”</p><p>“Really well. I’m struggling with this one though. Six down. The act of causing someone to accept as true or valid what is false or invalid.”</p><p>“Hmm…deceit.” Curt answered, far too proud of his knowledge.</p><p>“Yes. That must be it. Fits perfectly.” Owen nodded.</p><p>Deceit. What a fun little word that was.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. The Mistakes That Make Us</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Curt and Owen are finally forced to confront their mistakes.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>CONTENT WARNING:  Warning for mild threat, discussions of death, discussions of betrayal, past hospitalisation, and implied systematic homophobia.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The rest of the day felt endless as Owen struggled to act casual. Whether Curt was a patient enemy or simply an unwitting hinderance wasn’t important, he just couldn’t know what had been discovered. It should have been easy. Owen had always been an actor at heart. He would have taken to the stage if MI6 hadn’t played on his longing to do good in the world. How it took him so long to see that he’d been tricked he’d never understand. Still, it was so much harder to maintain composure around Curt. Mistake or not, a betrayal was a betrayal. From a man he dared to trust again no less. It was a deep cut, one that was hard to hide.</p><p>He excused himself straight after dinner and waited for night to fall. As long as he got the file back, no real hard would be done. If he was lucky, they wouldn’t have gathered enough information to trace anyone. After that, he wasn’t sure. Sticking around wasn’t a good idea. If Curt had let anyone in the Secret Service know he was alive, it was only a matter of time before they’d want a word. He’d have to disappear. He’d cut his few ties, come up with a new name and a new face. As long as he gave them what they needed, Chimera would help keep him in the shadows. They always did. This time though, he’d be sure to leave a note telling Curt he was safe, but not to look. Despite what he had done, Owen couldn’t leave him completely in the dark.</p><p>So, onto the matter of locating the file. Curt knew better than to leave them out in the open, but he was too easily distracted to come up with any complex system of hiding it. If he didn’t place it in an obvious spot, he would inevitably lose it himself. Owen had dipped in and out of the kitchen draws to know it wasn’t downstairs and he’d turned his room upside down making sure it wasn’t hidden under his nose. That just left the one area of the house he didn’t go in, Curt’s room.</p><p>Owen neatly packed his things and left the bag by his bed. He would have to wait until Curt was sound asleep before sneaking out. He waited until around 10pm, when he knew Curt would still be downstairs, crept towards the draws. The oak wood scraped and squealed as he slowly pulled the top draw open. He grimaced at the noise but paid it no mind. Curt was too far away to hear. He pushed aside the neat clothes to uncover a thick, brown file marked ‘confidential’. Bingo. First try. He smirked as he picked it up. He always loved it when someone highlighted their files with words like ‘private’ and ‘top secret’. It was like the owner’s were daring men like him to take a look.</p><p>His body went cold at the all too familiar click of a gun being primed. Instinctively, he slowly raised his hands and turned around, gripping the file tightly in one. There stood Curt, just a few steps away, with his pistol firmly pointed at his chest. Owen gulped. Not because of the gun, surely Curt would never dare fire, but because of his glare. It was a look as cold and hard as steel, with eyes that had seen far more than they should. Owen had seen this look a few times in a handful of men and he’d learned to fear it. It was a look that told him whatever happened next was above both of them.</p><p>“Drop the file.” Curt ordered. He wasn’t shouting. He didn’t even raise his voice. Somehow that made it worse. Curt was a man of emotion at heart. Maybe not to their enemies, maybe not even to their friends, but to him. Curt had always shown everything to him. All the fire and the fury, Owen welcomed all of it. If Curt was hurt, he understood, but the hiding was cruel. It sickened him to be spoken to as a stranger.</p><p>“Are we really doing this, love?” Owen laughed nervously.</p><p>“Yes, Owen, we’re really doing this.” Curt snapped. There was a sharpness in the way he said his name. It was meant to jab, and it did, but Owen couldn’t help but feel a little relieved at the falter. As they as could both feel something, there was a way he could make the situation work for everyone, even if it would never be perfect. He reached back and gently placed the file atop the chest of draws, before returning his hand to the air.</p><p>“This is ridiculous. I don’t know what you think is going on, love, but that file has nothing to do with you. It’s for-“</p><p>“For Chimera. I know.” Curt nodded. Owen’s heart stopped. That wasn’t possible. There was no way he could know that.</p><p>“H-how…how did you…”</p><p>“I didn’t, but I couldn’t just have something like that in my house and not know what it was. So, I asked Barb. The American Secret Service has connections everywhere, Owen. You know that. We traced back the files origin, talked some guys who knew some other guys until eventually-“</p><p>“Until eventually you found someone willing to blab.” Owen muttered.</p><p>“Right under our noses too.” Curt mumbled.</p><p>“Charlie?” Owen asked. Curt nodded. That little shit. Something always told him that scientist would be the death of them in the end.</p><p>“Poor guy got an ear full.” Curt laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Barb so mad at someone.”</p><p>“She can be feisty when she wants to be.” Owen sighed.</p><p>So just like that the secret was uncovered. One little tug at a thread. It wouldn’t stop Chimera, that was for sure. They were so spread out that if one cell went down, another could easily take its place. Besides, Charlie wasn’t their only insider. The chain went much higher. It wouldn’t take much to bury the lead. What they’d set in motion could never truly be stopped. Still, things would be a little harder now thanks to Owen’s stupidity. This was the price he paid for love.</p><p>“I’ve heard about the kind of things they want to do. Their little network. Why would you ever want to work for a group like that?” The way Curt said it made it sound like Owen’s actions had been a personal attack. He supposed they had, in a strange sort of way. But it was so much more than that. At least, it had become more than that. If only Curt could see the bigger picture.</p><p>“I’m not going to have this conversation while you’re pointing a gun at me.” Owen told him bluntly. Curt pursed his lips and threw the gun onto the bed. Owen flinched, expecting the careless action to result in a bang.</p><p>“There.” Curt grumbled.</p><p>“Jesus, Curt.” Owen shouted.</p><p>“Don’t worry, it wasn’t loaded. I could never actually shoot you.” Curt assured him.</p><p>“Oh, how kind of you.” He huffed.</p><p>“I didn’t let anyone know you were back either. I figured you’d want to stay hidden, so I said some deserter approached me in a bar and told me to make sure the files got to the right people. I don’t know how much they bought it but…”</p><p>“Thank you.” Owen replied quietly. Going back to Curt had been hard enough. Going back to everyone else was impossible. He couldn’t express how grateful he was to be granted that bit of privacy. He sat down on the edge of the bed, expertly hiding the slight shake he’d developed. Without the adrenaline of an active threat, his energy was completely gone.</p><p>“I just don’t understand. You know better.” Curt snapped.</p><p>Owen rolled his eyes. Yes, he knew better. Much better than most. Certainly, better than Curt.</p><p>“I told you I was still working. I hoped you wouldn’t pry. Why can’t you just trust me?” Owen scowled.</p><p>“It’s not like I didn’t have a reason not to. After what you did-“</p><p>“Oh, after what <em>I </em>did.” Owen snorted. That was going to hang over them for the rest of their days, wasn’t it? The one thing he would never live down. It was extremely hard to win any argument when the ‘you faked your own death’ card was on the table. Then again, Curt was the one who put it there. His old life wouldn’t have ended if it wasn’t for him. So, they were on equal footing when it came to betrayal.</p><p>“Don’t do that.”</p><p>“Do what?”</p><p>“Don’t pretend what you did wasn’t a big deal. You don’t get to just brush this off.”</p><p>Owen paused. Finding the words. Fine, maybe it couldn’t go unaddressed forever. If they were ever going to put the past behind them, he was going to have to swallow his pride and accept his mistake.</p><p>“Fine. The…choice I made might not have been the right one. At first, it was shock, then anger and after a while it was just…hating you was just normal. It wasn’t even you I was hating, just some concept. This dumb little idea of you. I’m sorry that what I did hurt you.” Owen explained calmly.</p><p>Over the years, Curt had just been the face of what he hated. The twisted mascot of a system that was deep and foul. Seeing him now, as the man he really was, as a person, it was hard to ignore the truth. Curt was as much a victim of these organisations as he had been. In a way, that made him want to go back to Chimera more. If he could just keep working, if he could hang on a little longer, he could set them both free. He could set everyone free.</p><p>“No.” Curt replied with a bluntness that took him off guard.</p><p>“What do you mean no?”</p><p>“I mean no, you don’t just get to be ‘sorry for hurting me’, like you just did something a little insensitive, okay? You did more than just hurt me.”</p><p>“Curt, come on-“</p><p>“No.” Curt snapped. “because I could almost accept it if what you did only affected me. I deserved it. But you didn’t just walk away from me. You left everyone behind. Everyone who loved you. You had a life, Owen. People cared that you were gone. Oh, and since you didn’t ask, your family’s fine. Your nephew Christopher started school in September.”</p><p>Already? That went fast. The last time he saw him he was barely a toddler, taking his first wobbly steps. Now he would be running, talking. He would be someone Owen wouldn’t even recognise. They all would. What were they like now? His older sister with Christopher, now the mother of an energetic four-year-old, and her irritating sports fan husband. His younger sister, who was exploring her awkward teenaged years when he left, would be nearing adulthood. And what about his mum, who had now lost her husband and her son? It had been so long since he’d thought about any of them.</p><p>“How do you know about my family?” Owen asked quietly.</p><p>“I talk to them. They send me letters. Your mum gave me the addresses.”</p><p>“You met my mum? When?”</p><p>“At your funeral, Owen.” Curt shouted. “I had to comfort your mother at your funeral. I had to sit there and tell her about what ‘good friends’ we were. And all that time you were off somewhere, living your life, like you didn’t even care.”</p><p>“Of course I cared.”</p><p>“Well not enough.” Curt snapped.</p><p>“So, all this is my fault now?” Owen mumbled.</p><p>“I didn’t say- Actually, you know what? Fuck it. Yes. Yes, Owen, maybe this is just the tiniest bit your fault. I fucked up. I know that. I’ve lived every single day of my life knowing that. But I didn’t have the choice to take back what I did. Nobody forced you to stay dead. They certainly didn’t force you to work for the enemy.”</p><p>“Who’s enemy, Curt?” Owen hissed. “Not <em>my </em>enemy. Not your enemy either. Not really. Chimera is creating a world where these dumb little missions in the name of fake divides won’t tear people apart.”</p><p>“You were shot working for them.”</p><p>“Can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs, dear.” Owen smirked. “Sacrifices have to be made if we ever want to see a new world. A better world.”</p><p>“Who chooses those sacrifices?” Curt asked calmly.</p><p>“That doesn’t matter.”</p><p>“I disagree.”</p><p>“We…we know what we’re doing, okay?”</p><p>“The world Chimera wants is dangerous.”</p><p>“The world Chimera wants is right.” Owen shouted. “We’re making it so all these stupid little secrets can’t control us anymore. Where <em>nothing </em>is hidden, so they can’t lie…“</p><p>No more lies. Not for anyone. And that was going to start with two of them. There was more to his anger than he’d ever let anyone know. If Curt was ever going to see the truth, he had to know everything.</p><p>“Do you want to know why I spent so long hating you?”</p><p>“I think I have a pretty good idea.” Curt muttered.</p><p>“Shut up. It wasn’t just because you’re smug or impulsive or because you can be such a bloody idiot. It isn’t even <em>just</em> because of what you did Russia. It’s because you’re so damn naïve. It’s because when they stamped that K.I.A marker on my file you didn’t even think to question it.”</p><p>“I…I saw you die.” Curt protested.</p><p>“You saw me fall. We’ve both survived worse. Didn’t you ever find it weird that they never found a body?”</p><p>“It was a bomb site. It wasn’t exactly unreasonable to think they wouldn’t find you.”</p><p>“They found others.” Owen pointed out.</p><p>“That’s not the point. They told me-“</p><p>“That’s the problem. <em>They </em>told you. No body, no proof. They just…<em>told </em>you. And you believed them, without question. You know what I thought when I first woke up. I’m so glad Curt got out. I’m going to give him such an ear full when we’re together again, but hey, at least he’ll come find me in the next few days. He’ll find me and we’ll probably argue for a while and then everything will go back to normal…and then you didn’t.”</p><p>“Owen-“</p><p>“And then weeks passed while I was in hospital, and you still didn’t. Until eventually I realised you never would. I realised that when you left me that night you left me for good. Because hey, the organisation that’s founded on lies told you. So I guess that’s the end of that.” Owen huffed.</p><p>“That’s…that’s not fair.”</p><p>“No, it isn’t.” Owen muttered. “When I was finally strong enough to start walking around again, I thought about passing along some sort of message. There was still was stupid part of me that really wanted…it still wanted you. But more of me was just so mad that you’d give up on me so easy. You let them bury an empty box, you didn’t even try…”</p><p>From the deepest corners of his mind, a memory surfaced. It was a soft, quiet memory, that had let itself remain tugged away for so long. Yet now it rose so gently that Owen couldn’t help but laugh slightly.</p><p>“What’s so funny?” Curt scowled.</p><p>“Pancakes.” Owen smiled.</p><p>“Pancakes? Owen, you can’t talk gibberish and expect me to understand what you’re on about.”</p><p>“The thing I always cooked for you when I was here. It was pancakes, even though I was really bad at them. I just remembered, because the first time I ever made them for you was-“</p><p>“Was after our first fight.” Curt realised. “W-we were arguing over something stupid, something I don’t even remember, and…you were always terrible at just saying sorry so-“</p><p>“So, I tried to say it with pancakes.” Owen nodded.</p><p>“Pancakes were your way of saying you still loved me.”</p><p>“Yeah…God, I made them without even thinking. It was just like…instinct. I mean…” He paused and sighed. “I never <em>wanted </em>to love you, Curt.”</p><p>“But…” Curt prompted softly.</p><p>“I don’t think it’s the kind of thing we get to choose.” He shrugged. Curt sighed and took a seat on the bed. Owen reached out his hand. The anger in the room dissipated as Curt accepted and leant his head on Owen’s shoulder.</p><p>“I’m trying to build a world for us, Curt. When there are no more secrets, they’ll be no more need for people like us. No more running, no more hiding. Nobody will ever lie to us again.” Owen explained softly.</p><p>“You know not all secrets are created equally.” Said Curt.</p><p>“Maybe in the new world that won’t matter.” Owen smiled.</p><p>“You can’t know for sure.”</p><p>“No. I can’t.” He admitted. “So…I guess we’ve got to answer that question now.”</p><p>“What question?”</p><p>“What happens now?” Owen sighed.</p><p>“…Stay.” Curt whispered.</p><p>“I can’t. I’ve already been here too long. It would just put us both in danger.”</p><p>“Then I’ll go. We can disappear. You’ve done it once already.”</p><p>“They’ll find us eventually. Both sides will find it suspicious if we go so suddenly.”</p><p>“Then we won’t go straight away. We’ll wait until we can make some sort of a plan. I can be patient. I waited three years; I can wait again.” Curt explained.</p><p>“No.” Owen shook his head. “One family already lost enough. I’m not going to rob yours too.”</p><p>“You’re not going to leave them, are you?” Curt asked. Owen’s eyes sunk to the ground. He knew he didn’t have to answer. He couldn’t give up on his goal. Not now. No matter what you cost.</p><p>“I suppose you’re going to try and stop me?” Owen asked quietly.</p><p>“Of course.” Curt nodded.</p><p>“You really think those agencies are any better than us?”</p><p>“No. Which is why I’m not doing it for them.”</p><p>Owen smiled. Stubborn as he was, perhaps Curt was a little smarter than he gave him credit for. Whether he liked it or not, Curt’s convictions were his own. That was all that really mattered.</p><p>Curt got up. Owen let himself look up just enough to follow him across the room. He watched him pick up the file and glance at them for a few seconds. All this for paper. Wasn’t that how it had always been? His life for nuclear blueprints, his peace for a file. Not much ever changed. Curt turned around and stretched out the hand holding the file in Owen’s direction. Owen stared at them, before looking up.</p><p>“You get this one for free. Just to keep you safe.” Curt smiled sadly. It took Owen a few more seconds to register what was happening, before he took the file from his hand.</p><p>“What does this make us now?” Asked Owen.</p><p>“I don’t know.” Curt shrugged. “Partners…enemies. Honestly, it makes us a bloody mess.”</p><p>“Nothing new there then.” Owen laughed.</p><p>“I guess not.” Curt smiled.</p><p>“Promise to be best enemy a man could ask for?” He asked.</p><p>“I’d never be anything less.”</p><p>Owen smiled and nodded. He walked and grabbed his bag. He passed Curt’s room as he headed to the stairs and found himself glued to the spot. He couldn’t leave without saying goodbye.</p><p>“I love you.” Said Owen.</p><p>“I love you too.” Curt replied.</p><p>“So, I’ll see you around?” He asked hopefully. Curt looked up. There was a small smile on his face. A cheeky, knowing smile that Owen hadn’t seen his they were young.</p><p>“Not unless I see you first.” He grinned.</p><p>Owen smiled and headed downstairs, letting himself out of the building. The December air was cold, but still and quiet, like everyone else in the world had ceased to exist. He took one last glance at the window, where he knew Curt would be watching. Such a nice home. What a shame it would never be his. But he didn’t linger. There was no need. This wasn’t goodbye. Not forever. They would see each other again. Of that, Owen was certain. This was just the beginning.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Some of you might be realising around now that there's another chapter left. That's because I have an epilogue from Curt's POV planned. You don't necessarily have to stick around for it since it takes place after all the main events of the story, but I think you'll like it. It should be out soon. In the meantime, I really hope you've enjoyed this. I've loved seeing all your comments as the chapters have gone on. I'll probably have another one shot out at some point in the near future, so be sure to keep an eye out for that.</p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Epilogue: What Goes Around</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Trapped in a hotel room with a serial killer, Curt wonders if its too late to ask for a miracle.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>CONTENT WARNING: Talk of violence, bombs, and Nazis (but they're SAF Nazis so peak idiot)</p><p>I went back to canon dialogue for the start of this and I forgot how weird Von Nazi actually is. Who let him be in charge of anything?</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>So, this was how his story ended. Tied to a chair in a hotel room above a casino. Curt supposed it made sense. He figured that his first few missions back would be a mess. He didn’t think this would be his last though. He wouldn’t mind so much; Tatiana and the strange British man were honourable enough enemies to fall to. Baron Von Nazi, on the other hand. Well, it was just salt in the wound if he killed him. There was nothing wrong with a little theatrics in life, but the song and dance number was really taking the piss.</p><p>Still, weird life’s begged for weird deaths. At least Cynthia would have an interesting story to tell at his funeral. ‘Here lies Curt Mega. He lived, he worked, he died at the hands of man with glitter in his sleeves. Waka waka’.</p><p>No, Baron Von Nazi wasn’t going to kill him. He was deluded, but he was no criminal mastermind.  Curt didn’t think that man had ever got blood on his hands.  Besides, with the deadliest man alive on his side, why would he bother with his own dirty work?</p><p>“Tatiana, prepare the bomb for transport. Mr Deadliest Man, please show our guest to his death.” Baron Von Nazi ordered. “I shall await my cheeseburger in my bedchambers.”</p><p>Part of him had to admire someone who went by ‘Deadliest Man’ like it was a regular name. Maybe Von Nazi had never caught his real name, or had simply forgotten it, but he couldn’t help wondering if he went by that title in polite conversation. Was it on paperwork? He pushed the idea to the back of his mind. He didn’t want his last thoughts to be so stupid.</p><p>“Cheeseburger, eh? Sounds awfully…American.” Curt smirked. Not his best jab, but he was under a lot of pressure. He still had some warming up to do.</p><p>“Those are the perks of being the Führer, Mega.” Von Nazi snapped. “You get to eat whatever you want, and you get to eat it in bed, okay? Like a big boy. I’m a big boy, okay? Goodbye, Mega.”</p><p>He stormed out, taking Tatiana along with him. It was just Curt and the serial killer. He wriggled slightly but didn’t bother putting up too much of a fight. The ropes were far too tight to escape. He supposed a last-minute saviour was too much to ask for. He should have been better at keeping friends.</p><p>“You sure know how to get into people’s heads, Mega.” The deadliest man alive muttered. He wasn’t making eye contact. He wasn’t even looking in his direction. His gaze was fixed on the closed door. Curt scowled at him. If he was going to kill him, the least he could do was get on with it.</p><p>“Thank you. It’s a gift.” Curt replied.</p><p>“I know.” The man nodded. He stood there for a few more long seconds. Curt wondering if he should say something, but there didn’t seem to any appropriate words. “There. He’ll been far enough away now.”</p><p>“What are you-“ The man turned around, causing Curt to cut himself off.</p><p>“I wouldn’t recommend trying to fight Miss Slozhno. She’d almost definitely win. If you have any chance at all it’s at the gala.” The man explained.</p><p>“Um…okay. Good to know.” Curt said uncertainly. Why was he telling him all this?</p><p>The man approached, disappearing behind the chair, out of Curt’s line of sight. This was it. Time up. Curt flinched, expecting cold sharp stab of a metal blade. Instead, he felt a soft touch on his arms, followed by the ropes around his wrists falling to the floor. He was free. The man leant in close. Curt smiled at the sound of a familiar voice whispering to him.</p><p>“Now we’re even, love.”</p>
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